Masquerade

by Janet Dailey

  Suddenly she was seeing another darkened ship—close to her—enveloped in swirling fog, two men silhouetted at the rail, thick lines stretching toward her. It was a full second before she realized the image of the ship was in her mind. There was white lettering on the bow—white lettering that spelled out the name of the ship.

  "Please, God, let me read it," she whispered.

  CRESCENT DRAG—

  "I don't care what you say." A woman's voice, bitter and accusing, broke over Remy, shattering that fragment of a memory. "She was dancing so close to you, it would have taken a crowbar to pry the two of you apart. It was disgusting."

  She spun away from the window and stared at the open door to the corridor, for a fraction of a second frozen by the sound of footsteps. Someone was out there! Who? Why?

  "What did you expect me to do? Shove her away?"

  That voice—it was Lance's. Dear God, she couldn't let him find her here. She looked frantically around the lighted room for some place to hide. That side door—it had to lead somewhere, if only to a closet.

  "You didn't have to look like you were enjoying yourself."

  "Dammit, Julie! Do we have to go through this every time we go out for the evening?" Lance protested angrily as Remy ran to the desk. At the moment speed seemed as important as silence. She grabbed her purse off the top of the desk, slinging the strap over her shoulder and hugging the folder against her, hoping their voices would cover any sound she made.

  "You should be flattered that after seven years of marriage I still care enough to be jealous."

  Their voices were closer; they were coming this way. She darted for the side door. Just as she reached it, Remy heard a low, steady hum. The copy machine—it was still on.

  "I have never liked green eyes, Julie."

  Remy dashed over and turned the machine off, the click of the switch sounding much too loud. She raced back to the door and forced herself to turn the knob slowly, to ease back the latch. When the door gave, she opened it only wide enough to enable her to slip through. But when she tried to glide noiselessly through the narrow opening, her purse thwacked the frame.

  "What was that?"

  "What?"

  Remy closed the door and flattened herself against it, shutting her eyes, longing to drink in great gulps of air, yet too afraid to breathe.

  "I thought I heard something." Lance's voice moved along the corridor, accompanied by the sound of firm, long-striding footsteps. Right behind them was the tap-tap-tap of high heels.

  Remy's eyes flew open. The file cabinets. She'd forgotten to lock them. It was too late. He was too close. Would he look? Would he notice? Would he blame it on a careless file clerk?

  Dear heaven. Remy looked around her, suddenly realizing she wasn't in a closet. She was in somebody's office. Lance's? It couldn't be—could it? She spotted the door to the corridor and darted to it, pressing herself against the wall next to the hinges so the door would hide her if it was opened.

  "Hello? Is somebody here?" He was directly outside; only the wall separated them. Remy sank her teeth into her lower lip, biting down on it hard to keep from betraying herself with a sound, a breath.

  "It's probably the cleaning people, Lance," replied the woman, obviously his wife. "Nobody else would be working this late."

  He was walking past the office door, continuing on toward the file room, his steps a little slower now—as if he was listening. Somehow she had to get out of here. If he started looking around, he'd find her. There was no place to hide.

  "Lance—"

  "Shut up."

  Remy snuck to the other side of the door and very, very carefully turned the knob, then opened it, not a crack but a sliver. When she peered out, the corridor was empty—in both directions, as near as she could tell. They must be in the file room. Then came the metallic sound of a file drawer gliding that last inch before it shut. She must have left one partially open. How long did she have—maybe seconds?—before he opened the connecting door to this office?

  She had one chance, and she took it, slipping out the door into the corridor and running swiftly and silently toward the reception area, totally exposed and expecting at every step to hear his shout of discovery. But it never came. As she rounded the corner, she threw one quick look down the hall. It was still empty. She dashed across the reception area to the door. He'd left it unlocked! She couldn't believe her luck as she banished the image of fumbling with the keys from her mind.

  She opened the door and slipped outside, taking care this time not to hit her purse on the frame. She closed it as quietly as she could, then turned, glancing from the elevators to the door to the emergency stairs.

  Not the stairs—they were too open, too exposed, too noisy; the slightest sound would echo. She ran to the elevators and punched the Down button, then waited, watching for an arrow to light up above one of them.

  "Hurry, hurry," she murmured under her breath, then caught the faint whir of one coming. Suddenly it hit her—the bell, the damned bell would ding when it reached this floor!

  It did—twice—as loud as any alarm to her ears. Remy cast one last glance over her shoulder at the office door, then darted inside the cage and pushed the Lobby button, and then the one marked Door Close.

  In their own good time, they slid shut. She made her first-ever white-knuckle descent in an elevator, her hands holding the shoulder strap of her purse and the file folder in a death grip as she wondered whether Lance had seen or heard her —and whether security would be waiting for her when the doors opened.

  But no uniformed guard was standing outside when the elevator reached the lobby. Remy hesitantly stepped out and was immediately engulfed by a laughing, loud-talking group streaming out of another elevator. One of them, a man, accidentally bumped into her.

  "Oops, sorry," he said, as Remy noticed the security man at the desk—on the phone. With Lance? "Hey, you're a cutie, you know that?" The man draped an arm around her shoulders, his breath reeking of whiskey.

  Remy saw the security guard glance at the group, and she carefully withheld any objections to the man's overt attentions. "Thanks," she said, letting the man draw her along with him as the group headed in the general direction of the doors.

  "Whatcha been doing? Working late at the office?" he asked, looking at the folder she was carrying.

  "Sort of."

  "That's too bad. We've been partying."

  "Really."

  "Yeah, we been at the bar up on top."

  "The Top of the Mart."

  "Yeah, that's the name of it." He leaned closer and giggled. "Agnes lost her purse. She laid it down on the ledge, and the next minute it was gone. Did you know that bar revolves? About an hour later, there was her purse."

  "How nice. I'm glad she got it back." They were directly level with the security desk.

  "You wanna go party with us?"

  "I don't know. Where are you going?"

  He frowned. "Hey, Johnny!" He called to one of the men at the front of the group. "Where're we going?"

  "Pat O'Brien's!"

  "Yeah, Pat O'Brien's. I'll buy you one of those tornado drinks."

  "Hurricane."

  "What?"

  "Never mind." They were out the door, walking into the sharp, cool night. She slipped free of his draping arm, offering a quick, "I've been to Pat O'Brien's before. Maybe another time."

  She had to force herself not to run to the parking lot, recognizing that she was almost safe and that this was no time to draw undue attention to herself. As she neared the sleek bronze Jaguar, she hastily dug through her purse for the keys. She unlocked the driver's door and quickly slipped behind the wheel, depositing her purse and the folder on the passenger seat, then sinking back against the tawny leather seat. Safe. It was over. Or was it? Wasn't it just beginning?

  "What have I gotten myself into?" she murmured. "I must be crazy."

  But she wasn't crazy, and she hadn't gotten herself into anything. On the contrary, she'd probably been
involved from the onset—perhaps knowingly, or perhaps not. One thing she was sure about: she had seen the Crescent Dragon tied up to a dock—in the mist and darkness of night. But what else had she seen? Or was the operative word whom?

  She sighed in frustration and inserted the key into the ignition.

  23

  "Good morning." Remy breezed into the dining room, encompassing all at the table in her greeting.

  "You seem remarkably chipper this morning," Frazier observed, from his chair at the head of the table.

  "I had a marvelous night's sleep, that's why," she said as she crossed to the serving table and poured orange juice into the one remaining glass beside the crystal pitcher. "How was the party? I have to admit I didn't hear any of you come in."

  "It was—" Gabe started to answer.

  "Remy, what are you doing in those clothes?" Sibylle looked at her with something akin to concern for her sanity.

  Remy plucked at the fawn-colored jodhpurs. "Isn't it obvious? I thought I'd go horseback riding this morning." Actually, she didn't know if she could ride a horse, but the jodhpurs, riding boots, and chocolate-brown corduroy jacket with fawn-colored suede patches at the elbows had been in her closet. Judging by the signs of wear on the inside of both the boots and the pants, she assumed she'd worn them for the use they were intended for and not simply for appearances.

  "At Audubon Park, I suppose," Gabe said.

  "Is that where I usually go? I wasn't sure." She walked over to sit beside him, her juice glass in hand.

  "Remy, have you looked outside?" her mother protested.

  "Yes." But she glanced over her shoulder again at the bleak gray overcast beyond the dining-room windows, then scooted her chair up to the table. "Depressing, isn't it? I decided it would be better to go out in it than stay in the house and have that gray gloom get me down."

  "But it's cold."

  "I prefer to think of it as 'brisk.'" She unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap. "And I'd much rather go riding when there's a nip in the air than when it's warm and muggy. Besides, I'm dressed for it," she said, indicating the black ribbed turtleneck sweater she wore under the heavy corduroy jacket.

  "What if it rains?"

  "Mother," she said in a laughing voice. "I may have lost my memory, but I still have enough sense to come in out of the rain." But she mentally crossed her fingers, hoping the rain would hold off until later in the day.

  "By that I take it you mean you haven't been able to remember anything else," Gabe said, studying her with a sympathetic look.

  She hesitated, then deliberately hedged the truth. "Not really. A few times I've had vague déjà vu feelings that I've seen or done the same thing before, but I can't honestly say they were memories."

  "You're home and safe with us again—that's what counts," Gabe assured her.

  "I know." She took a sip of her juice, then asked, dividing the question between Gabe and her father, "Have you been able to find out anything about the Dragon?"

  "Not yet," Gabe replied.

  "I thought Uncle Marc might have learned something."

  "He didn't." Her father's answer was curt, his expression closed and tight, making it clear this was not a subject he wished to discuss.

  She would have dropped the matter, but another question occurred to her. "Has anyone come right out and asked Cole what his meeting with the insurance people was about? It seems to me that regardless of how strong his contract is, he's still accountable to the board."

  She saw Gabe and her father exchange a quick glance, and then Gabe smiled at her. "Out of the mouths of pretty babes," he murmured, then shrugged. "I suppose we've all been so worried about you that we overlooked the obvious. It's definitely an option we should consider."

  "I'll mention it to Marc at lunch today," her father stated.

  This time the subject was closed for good as Nattie walked in with their breakfast. Remy breathed in the aroma coming from the tray and immediately guessed, "Pecan waffles."

  "With honey butter, brown-sugar syrup, and sausage," Nattie announced, setting the first plate in front of Remy's mother. "It should stick to your ribs and give you some cushion when you fall off that horse."

  But Remy had no intentions of going horseback riding. It was nothing more than an excuse to be absent from the house.

  Remy parked along the edge of the levee road and stepped out of the Jaguar, the road's oyster-shell surface crunching beneath her riding boots. A few feet from the opposite shoulder, the levee's grassy eight-foot bank sloped away to level out beside the River Road, which followed the Mississippi's twists and bends.

  She closed the car door, then glanced in the direction of the tank farm and pipeline terminal on the other side of the road. Some one hundred tanks, resembling giant steel cans painted a dull white, stretched away from her in orderly rows, the whole area enclosed by a towering chain-link fence. A sign on the gate identified it as the property of the Gulf Coast Petroleum Association, a name that meant nothing to her.

  A commercial jetliner rumbled in the distance, making its departure climb from nearby New Orleans Airport. Remy watched it for an instant, then noted the hard, cold look of the clouds overhead and hoped again that they reflected only the gray of winter and not the gray of rain.

  Turning, she faced the Mississippi River and the trio of petroleum docks that stood in the muddy brown waters some three hundred feet from the bank. Low, flat barges were moored to the downriver dock, but the middle one—the nearest one—had an oceangoing tanker tied alongside.

  Was this the dock where the Crescent Dragon had taken on its last load of crude? Was this where she'd seen the tanker? She couldn't remember, and she'd found nothing in the company files that identified the location of the vessel's last berth— or, at least, if the information was there, she hadn't recognized it as such. And heaven knew, there were literally dozens of petroleum docks scattered along the Mississippi River, stretching all the way to Baton Rouge. Most of them, like this cluster, were located upriver or downriver from the city itself, away from thickly populated areas—or so the Port Authority had told her when she'd called them from a phone booth.

  Unfortunately, that was about the only useful information she had been able to obtain from them. The man she'd spoken with had claimed he didn't know how to go about finding out where a specific vessel had been berthed more than five months before. He wasn't even sure the commission kept a record of such things, especially when there was no requirement for a vessel to notify them when it left port. He'd told her that the dock agent probably kept track of that type of information.

  Which left her back at square one—which dock, and which dock agent?

  With no crew available to question, the dock was her only starting point. If she'd been there when the Dragon was loaded, as she believed, she might have been seen by one of the dockworkers. If she could locate the men on duty that night, talk to them, maybe one of them could tell her what had happened, who'd been there, and what she might have seen.

  It sounded possible . . . even logical. Remy smiled to herself, fully aware that it wasn't logic that had selected this particular petroleum dock as the place to begin asking her questions—it was simply the second one she'd come across. The entrance to the first had been locked up tight, with no one on duty at the gate, and she'd been forced to drive on. She tried not to think about how many more like that she might encounter, and concentrated instead on this one.

  A ramp, wide enough to allow the passage of a motorized vehicle, led out to the middle quay. Ignoring the sign that read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT, Remy walked onto the ramp and continued past the NO TRESPASSING and NO SMOKING signs posted at frequent intervals along the entire length of it.

  The reek of petroleum fumes grew stronger as she neared the tanker. Stout mooring lines ran from the vessel to the bollards on the concrete dock, securing the ship to its berth, and a gangway stretched from the dock to the ship's weather deck. There was no sign of activity
on the tanker itself, except for the three chicks stands that connected the dockside pipelines to the ship's holding tanks.

  Catching sight of two men on the dock, Remy angled toward them. For some reason she'd expected it to be busier than this, with more of the bustle she'd observed on the cargo wharves.

  "Hey, lady!" a voice barked, directly behind her.

  Remy stiffened, suddenly and unexpectedly feeling the cool breath of the river fog on her cheeks, smelling the dampness of the mist, and seeing darkness all around her—the darkness of night, that night. In that instant she knew she'd been surprised by someone that night—just like this.

  She whirled around and stared at the bejowled bulldog of a man facing her. Not by him—she was oddly certain of that. He wore a plaid-lined jacket in a dark navy twill and a pair of pants in the same fabric that rode precariously low on his hips, the waistband dipping under his big beer-belly.

  "What're you doing out here? Didn't you see the signs?" He jerked his thumb in the direction of the NO TRESPASSING placard behind him. "No one's allowed on this dock without authorization."

  "I know. I was looking for someone who could give me permission. Can you?" She gave him her most winsome smile, but he didn't bat an eye.

  "You'd have to see the director of operations, Tom Hayes, and he ain't here today."

  "What about you? What do you do?"

  "I'm in charge of loading and operations."

  "Then maybe you can answer a few questions for me—"

  "Look, lady. We don't give tours and we don't allow visitors. You'll have to leave now."

  "At least you can tell me whether you're loading or unloading this ship," Remy persisted.

  "Loading it," he said, and he pursed his lips and teeth to emit a loud, ear-splitting whistle. He followed it with a shout and motioning swing of his arm. "Charlie! Come over here!"

  Both men on the dock turned at the sound of the shrill whistle, but it was the shorter of the two who broke away to answer the summons. As he trotted over, the jaunty tilt of his billed cap, the natural spring to his step, and the litheness of his build all gave a deceptive impression of youth. When he stopped in front of them, Remy noticed the deep lines that age and the elements had carved into his face, and she realized he was a great deal closer to sixty than to thirty.