Silent Masquerade Read online

  He kept his place in the book with his finger and closed his eyes, his mind drifting back of its own accord.

  “We need you back home, Spence. There’s an opening in Alvaretti’s organization, and if you move fast and with the right credentials, we can do what we’ve always wanted—get a man inside to overturn Alvaretti’s operation.”

  He’d had the right credentials. Alvaretti had taken him on after only a couple of days of consideration, and he’d became privy to the legitimate books in Alvaretti’s accounting department—but not the books that the FBI, the CIA and the IRS were panting to uncover. That had taken time. He’d had to find a way to get into the man’s good graces before he was trusted with the other side of Alvaretti, Inc.

  It had taken eighteen months. During that time he’d been tried by fire more than he cared to remember, once by being forced to stand by with his mouth shut while members of Alvaretti’s goon squad worked a man over until he was nearly dead.

  When he was finally allowed into the inner sanctum of the organization’s workings, he’d thought it was merely a matter of photocopying the evidence and getting out. He had never anticipated the end result—that the agency would have to bury him, that from that moment on, Alvaretti wouldn’t rest until he got his revenge.

  His superiors had talked about plastic surgery, a faked death, the Witness Protection Program. The WPP seemed the least drastic, in Spence’s mind, and he had determined then not to relinquish control of his life to anyone else. He knew now that the government had deliberately used him in its frenzy to get Alvaretti, and that once he’d done the job he was no longer of any use to them.

  I should have realized up front that there was no other way out once I went in, he told himself for the umpteenth time. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists. The worst of it was that he really missed his job; it was work he’d known he wanted to do since he’d been a schoolboy. There was pain in recognizing how much he’d lost. He took a deep breath to push away the ache.

  Cara felt movement beside her and drew her attention from the passing scenery to glance sideways at Bill. “Are you all right?” she whispered, seeing the devastation on his face, his rigid body language.

  He blinked, forced himself to relax and nodded, a tiny line of sweat beading his forehead. “Yeah. Fine. Don’t worry.”

  Cara wasn’t so sure. He looked sick, as if he were about to have a seizure or something, or as if he were experiencing incredible pain. “I’ve got some aspirin in my purse,” she said softly. “Would that help?”

  He shook his head and then leaned back against the headrest. “No, thanks. I think I just need to sleep for a while.” He closed his eyes.

  Cara turned back to the window but couldn’t get this last image of him out of her mind. It brought to mind news clips of the hostages just released from years of incarceration in the Middle East. But he was none of her business, after all. She’d offered her help, and she’d been refused. She had enough troubles of her own without adding his to her list.

  Nevertheless, when they pulled into a bus station for their lunch stop, she suggested they eat their meal together.

  He looked hesitant at first, but then shrugged, as if to say “What harm can it do?” For some reason, Cara found that gesture strangely disturbing. It made her feel insignificant; though they were only strangers passing a day and a night together by accident, she felt as if she would have liked to make a better impression on him.

  Bill told himself that this interlude for the brief time they were travelers together couldn’t lead to anything dangerous. The girl was good company. She didn’t chatter away, as some travelers did, and yet she was friendly and open.

  Well, not entirely open. There was that business about her name. And he’d noticed that whenever they came to a town, she put her hand up along the side of her face that was nearest the window, as if she were afraid someone in one of those towns would recognize her.

  In the station coffee shop, Cara ordered a small dinner salad and iced tea, while Bill took the waitress’s recommendation of the blue plate special.

  “How do you keep your figure, eating like that?” Bill asked, gesturing toward Cara’s tiny bowl of salad.

  “This is how I keep my figure,” Cara said with a grin.

  But when she ordered the same thing at the supper stop, Bill thought again that Cara must be short on funds and unable to afford a complete meal. It made him nervous to eat with her, and he couldn’t help but worry about her health. Wouldn’t she get sick if she didn’t get some real food into her?

  He told himself that his only reason for being concerned about her was that her getting sick would draw attention to him, since they were seatmates and had taken all their meals together.

  He ordered two roast beef sandwiches, an apple and a carton of milk to go. “I get hungry during the night, and we don’t stop again until morning,” he told Cara, who was looking askance at him, because he’d just stowed away a large steak, a double order of hash browns, salad and dessert.

  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 w
hat 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.