Final Masquerade by Cindy Davis Page B

shook her head and lowered her voice. “Besides, I'm trusting you to get me the hell out of California alive. That's all the dependency you need right now."
    "Ouch."
    "Look, someone's already gotten killed because of me, and I won't have it happening again. I have to get away as fast and unobtrusively as I can."
    "Is that the reason for the wig?"
    "Too obvious?"
    "Only up close. Why not fly if you need to get away fast?"
    "That's what they expect me to do."
    Neither spoke again until their food had come. Paige busied herself with her sandwich and coffee, while looking at the handful of customers around the room.
    A young couple with a small child in a high chair was seated in the first booth. The little boy drubbed his spoon relentlessly on his tray while he jabbered in language only small children and their parents can decipher. Paige grimaced. A single man leaning on an elbow, smoking a pipe, occupied only one other table. He cast an occasional glance toward the kitchen, then at his watch. He paid little or no attention to the remaining customers. There was a person at each end of the bar, like Art-Deco paperweights. The man on the right wore a white shirt and tie. His hair was cut short and square across the back. A woman at the other end, dark-haired and brusque looking, in jeans and a red sweatshirt, kept glancing around the room, as if studying the rest of the clientele.
    She swiveled the stool back to the counter, tapped a forefinger on a sheet of paper in a manila folder and then looked back in Paige and Chris’ direction.
    Paige's fingers tingled. Her forehead burned. “Go get my bag in the truck."
    "Wha...?"
    "I have to go."
    "What?"
    "I've been recognized."
    "Who? By whom?"
    "Don't look, but it's the woman at the end of the counter."
    Chris lowered his head and rolled his eyes in that direction. He whispered, “What makes you think she's following you?"
    "Please, just go get my suitcase. I'll make a production out of going to the bathroom."
    "I know what you're planning and it won't work. She's a woman and will follow you right in there."
    "What do I do then?” Paige asked the question before recalling she hadn't planned on trusting anybody.
    "Let me think a second.” He twirled the tip of his mustache. Under his breath he muttered, “How the hell did they find you?"
    "Had to be that evil waitress back in Barstow."
    Chris laughed. “She's not evil. She just has a crush on me."
    "Yes, but if the people following me asked her, she'd sure as hell tell them.” She laughed nervously. “She'd probably offer to escort them here."
    He gave a tight smile. “Okay, here's what we do. We fake an argument, loud so everyone hears. There's a bank of pay phones behind the gift shop.” He motioned slightly with his head. “Pretend to call a cab. She'll probably follow and listen in. Make sure she overhears you tell them you want to go to—how about north, to Farmington? Then say you'll meet the taxi out front in fifteen minutes. I'll storm out and get into the truck. You make it look like you're going to the ladies’ room. She won't follow because she knows you're waiting for the cab. Go past the ladies’ room door and sneak out the service entrance. I'll drive the truck around and pick you up. I'll go real slow making it look like I'm just passing through. The door will be open. You hop in as I pass. Okay?"
    "Tracy Wilson, stuntwoman.” Paige laid her head down on folded arms. Her shoulders heaved.
    Chris reached across the table and put a hand on her shoulder. “It'll work, trust me."
    She threw his hand off. “Don't try to make up to me after what you just said. What makes you think you can talk to me that way? Damn men. You're all alike.” She rose, tipping over her coffee with an elbow. She slammed her purse on her shoulder and stormed to the bank of telephones at the far end of the building.
    He stood quickly, mopping at the hot beverage, calling, “Tracy, don't, please. I'm sorry."
    She ignored