Silent Masquerade Page 9

  She was a movable feast of color and style, her reddish gold hair worn differently most days, her clothing brightly patterned, her skin, almost alabaster the first day he’d seen her, now tawny from the California sunshine.

  Now, when he stood across from their building and watched the light go on in their apartment, he felt a twinge of envy that Hamlin got to close himself in with her for the night while he, Lefebre, had to return to a lonely motel room. He was beginning to hate Hamlin, even though he knew the couple weren’t having sex. He’d been watching for the signs, and they hadn’t changed. Oh, sure, they’d started touching more, paying more attention to one another, but that could be part of the act of pretending to be married.

  That should have made him feel better, but now it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop, because he couldn’t believe that Hamlin wasn’t going to go after the girl sooner or later. The guy wasn’t a eunuch, was he?

  He decided not to enter the restaurant, not to take any more chances. Today she’d looked up right into his eyes when she spotted him across the boardwalk. He’d seen the reaction. Fear. Not one of recognition, however, which told him she’d just been frightened by the fact that she’d caught a stranger staring at her. With good reason, he knew. People on the run became paranoid after a while, trusting no one, fearing everyone.

  He moved away from the window, jaywalking across the street, in front of a cab whose horn blared an angry warning at him.

  If she was going to have dinner there, he had time to call his client. The man had insisted that he make the calls from different phones each time, always using a public phone. Personally, he thought his client was just as paranoid as the couple, but he didn’t question it, merely did as he was told—at least most of the time. No skin off his nose. Twice he’d ignored the client’s orders and called from the motel, putting the call on his credit card, figuring the client would never know the difference, but for the most part...

  The ringing stopped, and a man answered. Lefebre made his report.

  “No phone yet. I’ve waited every day in front of the building, and no phone company truck has shown up”

  “They’re still in the same place, still at the same jobs?”

  “Yep. Doesn’t look like they’re on the move. Looks like they’re in it for the long haul. You should be able to zero in on them anytime you want.” He hesitated. “So...uh...you want me to back off now?” He hoped the client couldn’t hear the slight edge of pleading in his voice, couldn’t recognize that Gordon Lefebre was getting hooked on this one. He knew that happened sometimes in his line of work. Becoming enamored of the prey. Not always sexual interest. Sometimes you got to watching a guy and your curiosity got piqued to the point where you had to know what happened next, couldn’t stand to leave in the middle of a scenario. Once he’d done surveillance on a woman and her lover for the woman’s husband. Their lovemaking had been so exquisite that he couldn’t stand to miss a moment of it. He’d continued to watch every day for a week after he’d reported his findings to the husband. That was how he’d happened to be watching when the husband burst into the room and shot the lovers. Lefebre had never quite recovered from that, from feeling as if he’d caused the murders.

  He hadn’t turned himself in as a witness, and his conscience didn’t bother him on that score, but after that he’d refused to take any more errant-spouse jobs.

  “Hell, no!” the man shouted, bringing Lefebre out of his reverie. He held the receiver away from his ear for a minute and then put it back in place. A relieved grin lit his face, giving it a puckish look.

  The client went on, “The object is for you to stay with them until I can get out there myself. What if they decide to move in the meantime?”

  “Yes, right, I get it.” Lefebre quit smiling, almost afraid the client would hear the happiness in his voice. “Listen, how long before you think you’ll get out here?”

  “I don’t know.... That isn’t your concern, anyway.”

  “It’s just I was looking forward to meeting you in person,” Lefebre said.

  A mirthless chuckle came down the wire. “That’s not going to happen, Lefebre. You’ll be told to leave twenty-four hours before I arrive, and I expect you to follow orders.” The client’s tone grew ominous as he added, “If you know what’s good for you.”

  Lefebre wasn’t afraid of anyone. But something in the client’s voice caused a chill to run up his back. Not for the first time, he wondered what the client had in mind for the couple, what their connection to him was.

  * * *

  BILL WAS TIRED AND HUNGRY when he got home that night. It had been a long day, and he hadn’t been able to get up the energy to stop at a restaurant for dinner. This would have been a good night to come home to a meal prepared by Cara, but he didn’t expect it and wouldn’t ask her.

  He was rummaging around in the fridge, looking for something filling, when Cara came to the kitchen door.

  He lifted his head and gave her a tired smile. “I see you got home without incident.”

  “I’m fine. There’s a carryout of spaghetti in there, if you’re hungry. I didn’t touch it.”

  Bill found the box and then looked up at her when he opened it and found a full portion. “Did you get this for me?”

  “No...” She shook her head, averting her eyes. “I ordered it and then found I really wasn’t hungry, so I had them box it up.”

  He held it out to her. “Won’t you want it later? Or would you like to share it now?”

  “No. You eat it.” She turned and went out of the room.

  “Hey,” he mumbled to himself, “was it something I said?”

  He’d never really seen her in a bad mood. “Peckish,” his grandmother would have called it. It was the way his grandfather got when dinner was late. But Cara had said she wasn’t hungry. He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t inclined to go after her. After last night, he’d made a pact with himself that he was going to keep a greater distance between them. That was one of the reasons why, when his boss asked if any of the guys wanted to work the split, he’d jumped at the chance. It was true he didn’t like her walking home alone but, all in all, she was probably safer on the street than alone with him. This way, they wouldn’t be thrown together all the time, and temptation wouldn’t get a chance to rule him.

  So whatever was bothering her now, she’d have to get over it herself.

  He dumped the pasta into a saucepan and adjusted the gas to let it simmer before he sat down at the kitchen table and unfolded the newspaper. Determined as he was to keep his distance, he found that he couldn’t focus on the paper, that he kept lifting his head to listen for her movements in the other room.

  The apartment seemed strangely silent after the continual noise of the day, especially now that Cara wasn’t in here chatting with him. “I’ll get a TV set,” he grumbled. “And maybe even a stereo.”

  He’d warned Cara that they might have to leave their current address at a moment’s notice and, for that reason, he didn’t want to be tied down by material things. She’d agreed, insisting she’d like a life without television, radio and sundry mechanical gadgets. Now he thought maybe just a small TV wouldn’t be so bad. Just a small black-and-white screen—something he wouldn’t regret leaving behind if they did have to run.

  They.

  Would he still take her along if his whereabouts were discovered by Alvaretti’s people? It wouldn’t make much sense. It would mean they knew he was traveling with her.

  No, if he was made by the wise guys, he’d have to go on alone, leaving her to find a different life for herself.

  He tried to visualize what that life might be. She wouldn’t have to run forever. After all, that Harvard guy might be a world-class jerk, but he was no real threat to Cara. She could always tell her mother the truth. The woman’s feelings would be hurt, but she’d actually be better off knowing the truth. Maybe he should talk to Cara about that, advise her to come clean with her mother. It would mean confessing th
at he’d read her journal, but maybe that, too, would be in Cara’s best interest.

  He could imagine her talking to her mother on the telephone at the drugstore down the block—the tears of relief, the promise to be home soon. He’d probably drive her up to San Francisco, to the airport.

  And then he’d come back here to this apartment. Alone.

  The spaghetti sauce burped loudly, on the verge of burning. Bill prepared his plate, then sat down to eat.

  It dawned on him, as he raised the first forkful to his mouth, that this was the first meal he’d eaten alone since he’d met her, except for that one time during the bus trip when she’d had a headache.

  He got up and went to her room. The door was closed, and he knocked gently.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me.” Sap! he told himself. Who else would it be? He rubbed his fingertips in a circle along the wood grain of the door. “Are you feeling all right? Can I get you anything?”

  “No. I’ll be fine. I just want to be alone.” Her voice sounded weak, faraway.

  “Oh...well...if you need anything...”

  “Thanks.”

  He stood there a moment longer, nervous and uncertain. Should he press the issue, insist she open the door so that he could see for himself that she was all right? But what if it was a woman thing, and she really just wanted to be left alone? He didn’t know much about these things.

  If she’s really sick, she’ll let me know, he assured himself, and went back to his solitary meal.

  * * *

  CARA PRESSED her palms to her eyes and shook her head as she listened to Bill’s receding footsteps. She couldn’t hole up in this room every time Bill was home, hiding from whatever threat he might pose. And furthermore, there hadn’t been any sign of malice in his voice when he offered his help. For that matter, she’d never really seen anything in Bill Hamlin’s nature to indicate that he meant her any harm. Well, at least not after that one time when he’d tied her to the chair in her motel room.

  She’d thought then that he was a sexual deviant, and he’d proved her wrong. Certainly, if he was a rapist or a killer, he’d have taken advantage of her then. And hadn’t he come back to untie her, not knowing she’d gotten out of the bindings herself? Was that the act of a criminal?

  But even criminals had soft spots for some people in their lives. Their mothers, children, wives—even their dogs. Okay, so assuming the worst—that Bill Hamlin was a fugitive from the law—that didn’t mean he would hurt her. She’d been safe with him so far. They’d slept under the same roof for almost a month now, and he’d never come anywhere near her bedroom door until just now.

  She began to feel foolish. Once again she’d let her imagination carry her far astray from reality. She sat up on the edge of the bed, her chin in her hands, and tried to decide what she should do.

  The obvious thing, if she was in doubt, was to go to the police. She pulled up a mental picture of Bill in jail, behind bars. The thought was dreadful. She jumped up and began to pace the room. She’d seen enough cop movies to guess that if the law was really after Bill, she could be considered an accessory or, at the very least, guilty of harboring a criminal.

  She stopped at her window and looked out. Her room was on the south side of the building, looking out over the pool. At times she liked to sit in the dark and look down on the blue water, lit from below by pool lamps. Sometimes a lone swimmer would do laps, and sometimes a couple would come out and swim slowly, seductively, around one another, splashing water and then stroking away sensuously. She wasn’t much of a swimmer herself—in fact, she’d yet to even try on the new suit she’d purchased their second day here. Bill, on the other hand, used the pool at least once a day.

  As if she’d conjured him from her thoughts, Bill suddenly appeared on the deck below her window, one of their striped towels slung around his neck, his body bare except for the brief black trunks he wore. He went to the edge of the pool, tossed the towel onto a nearby lounge chair and dived into the water without ceremony.

  Cara gasped softly, amazed by the beauty of his body and form. He was attractive in clothing, but half-naked, using his body athletically, he was a work of art. She pressed closer to the window, not wanting to miss a single stroke as Bill did smooth, rapid laps from one end of the pool to the other, over and over. The water barely rippled around him as he moved his arms in and out, lifting his head every other stroke to take in air. She knew nothing about the sport, but she guessed he was probably good enough for competition.

  When he lifted himself from the water, he did it with the same unhurried ease with which he’d dived in, using his arms to pull himself up onto the deck.

  Cara’s gaze never wavered as she watched Bill bend to retrieve the towel and dry his face, his hair, and then his body.

  She realized that she was actually spying on him, that he might be uncomfortable if he knew she was watching his every move. But she couldn’t stop, couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight of all that masculine beauty.

  He stood a moment, staring down into the water, and then he put the towel back around his shoulders and moved away from the pool, back into the building and out of her view.

  Cara crept back to her bed and lay down on her side, her breathing shallow, though her heart seemed to be pumping at top speed.

  Bill Hamlin was probably wanted by the police in half the country, judging by the way he protected his identity, and she should probably be scared to death of him. But one thing she knew for sure—if he came into her room right now, his body still cool and damp from his swim, his hair curling around his ears in wet ringlets, his skin glistening, his muscles defined by his every movement, she would open her arms to him and hold him forever safe from whatever demons were chasing him.

  Chapter Seven

  The next day, Cara was her usual sunny self, pushing Bill away from the stove to scramble his eggs herself, jokingly putting an apron around his neck like a bib when he sat down to eat in his clean work clothes.

  When he left for work, Bill turned back and said, “Don’t forget we have a date on Sunday.”

  She wouldn’t forget. It loomed large in her mind for most of her waking hours. Her fantasies brought a smile to her lips, a fever to her skin.

  It was hard getting used to Bill’s new schedule. She knew she was going to be lonely in the days to come. She thought it would be wise to start cultivating friendships among her neighbors and her co-workers.

  But for now, she had Sunday to dwell on, to look forward to. It was three days away and by the time it rolled around she could hardly contain her excitement.

  They drove up route 9, into the Santa Cruz Mountains, joining a long line of traffic made up of tourists and Sunday travelers like themselves. Cara could see how the early Californians had sculpted the mountain to create homes and businesses. The inside, along the mountain itself, seemed safe and inviting. But on the outside of the mountain there would be a patch of trees, or even a driveway leading into a property, and then suddenly the land would fall away in a sheer drop that made Cara nervously lean in toward Bill.

  “I didn’t know you were afraid of heights,” Bill commented, obviously sensitive to her discomfort.

  “I didn’t think I was. But for some reason this feels so open, and the openness feels like it could just suck us right into it, right over the edge.”

  Bill laughed at her imaginative description. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll grab you if it looks like an alien is about to snatch you out of the car and over the edge.”

  Cara made a face at him and gingerly moved back to her own side of the seat.

  “Speaking of heights, would you like to see the redwoods?”

  “Oh, yes!” All fear of the mountain was forgotten, and in moments Bill was turning the car into the Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park. The fact that it was on the outside of the mountain never even occurred to Cara, so excited was she by the sight of the sequoias, some of them thirty feet in diameter, with their trunks extending
skyward for what looked like miles.

  Their size created a feeling of shelter in the park, and as they walked along the paths, with patches of sunshine falling on them between the trees, Cara had a feeling much like that of being in a church. The feeling seemed to be universal, for Cara noticed that all around her people were speaking in hushed tones, and that everyone in the park had the same look of awe on their faces.

  She glanced over at Bill and saw that he, too, was affected by the grandeur of the big trees.

  As they walked along, Cara stumbled on a root embedded in the path, and Bill reached for her hand to steady her. Without thinking about it, they continued to hold hands as they strolled deeper into the forest.

  They came to a park bench and sat down to enjoy the mystique of the park and the trees. Their hands separated, but the good feeling of camaraderie continued.

  “This is heaven,” Cara whispered, her voice quivering with happiness. “I don’t think I can bear to leave it.”

  “Yep. I’m sure this is exactly what heaven is like,” Bill said, gazing skyward. “But have you noticed, nobody’s set up camp here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bill shrugged. “I think people don’t want too much of a good thing. I think they like the idea it’s here and they can come back over and over and find it here, but they don’t want to stop their normal lives and move in here.”

  “I would.”

  He glanced down at her and saw that her face was etched with reverence.

  “Yeah. Well, you’d get tired of it soon enough, especially when you found out they don’t make pizza deliveries into the park.”

  “Oh, you!” Cara punched Bill’s arm and moved a few inches away from him. “You are absolutely the most cynical person I’ve ever met in my life.”

  “And you’ve met tons of cynics, right?”