The Imposter

by Gary Blackwood

  He took out his most normal-looking outfit—corduroy pants and a pullover—and struggled into them as best he could without getting out of the chair. He still didn't feel any too perky. In fact, he felt downright rotten.

  Chapter 18

  When he dredged up enough energy to shuffle out to the kitchen, he found Ollie sitting on a stool at the counter, sipping what looked and smelled suspiciously like coffee. She gave him a curious look, as if she wondered what he was still doing here. "Good morning."

  Ryan forced a thin smile, just to show that he was still in the game. "Morning. That wouldn't be coffee by any chance, would it?"

  "Espresso, in fact. It's my one vice." Unless you counted spying and torture. "Would you like a cup?"

  Ryan hesitated. Oh, surely she wouldn't have doctored the coffee just on the chance that he might want some. "Please. I hope it has plenty of caffeine."

  She filled a small, delicate china cup with dark liquid from a gleaming espresso machine. "Didn't you sleep well?"

  He wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of knowing how miserable his night had been. "Oh, I slept like a log," he lied. A log that was adrift in the Arctic Ocean, maybe. "I'm just not a morning person."

  "Really? You don't take after Ken, then. He's up and doing, practically at the crack of dawn." Somehow she managed to imply that, of course, there was no reason he should take after Ken, since they weren't related in any way whatsoever.

  Ryan didn't trust himself to reply. He just grinned innocently and sipped at his espresso. The stuff was as thick and black as roofing tar, and bitter as gall. He might have known she'd find some way of ruining even a cup of coffee.

  "Good, isn't it?" Ollie said.

  Ryan smacked his lips. "Sinfully delicious."

  "Well, I'm sorry to desert you, but I have a thousand things to do."

  Like what? Giving Sandy a hard time? Instructing the cook on the fine points of using strychnine? "Don't worry about me. I'll make myself at home." When she was gone, he dumped the tar down the drain, then poured a large glass of milk and carried it out onto the patio.

  He'd never been much of an outdoor person, but it beat being in the same house with Ollie. He had to admit, the surroundings were beautiful and peaceful here. You couldn't even see any other houses, just the horse pasture in one direction and in the other direction, the river with a curtain of mist hanging over it, like the semi-transparent scrims they sometimes used in plays.

  Ryan wasn't sure he could ever really feel at home here, though. It was too perfect, somehow—almost unreal, like a stage set. Real life as he knew it was neither beautiful nor peaceful. It was gritty, dingy, and noisy, full of problems and irritations. Acting had always been his refuge from it. But a refuge was, by definition, only temporary. You always had to go back. This had been just another acting gig; it was time to go back.

  "Well," said a voice, "if it isn't old sleepyhead."

  Ryan turned to see Kelley approaching from the stable. "Lay off, okay? I had a long, hard night."

  Kelley's smile faded. "I'm sorry. I was just kidding."

  Ryan sighed. Why did she have to take it so personally? "I know, I know. I'm just in a lousy mood."

  "What's wrong? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

  He only wished he could tell her the whole confusing and unpleasant truth. All he could say was, "I don't know, exactly. I woke up in the middle of the night, freezing to death."

  "You think it was a virus or something?"

  "More like hypothermia."

  Kelley frowned thoughtfully. "Did you check the heater?"

  "What heater?"

  "Come on." She led the way to his room, where she got down on hands and knees next to the bed. "Uh-oh." She held up the end of an electrical cord. "That's what I was afraid of. The waterbed's unplugged."

  "Great! Why didn't somebody tell me?"

  She bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I checked it when we were getting your room ready, and it was okay then. I don't see how it could've got unplugged again."

  Ryan had no trouble figuring it out. It was another of Ollie's torture methods. "Well, don't worry about it. It's not your fault."

  "But you must have been miserable."

  Ryan shrugged. "Nobody ever said life was supposed to be easy."

  She gave a nervous laugh. "What does that mean?"

  "Nothing. It doesn't mean anything." He knew he'd hurt her feelings again, but what did it matter? If he turned her against him now, even a little, he was really doing her a favor. That way, when the rug was pulled out from under her, she wouldn't have so far to fall.

  Ryan was anxious to just make his getaway and be done with it, but Mr. Kurz was busy in his den until lunchtime, no doubt engaged in some financial wizardry. Ryan wandered about like a lost soul, looking for something to occupy his mind so he didn't have to think about how his father and his sister—his fake father and sister—would feel when he took off.

  Kelley tried hard to cheer him up. "You want to go riding again?" she asked hopefully. When he clutched his arm protectively, she winced in sympathy. "Guess not, huh? Hey, why don't we fool around on the piano some more? That was fun."

  "Not now. Maybe later, okay?" But, of course, there would be no later. Ryan shrugged indifferently. "Oh, well, okay, a little bit."

  Kelley's smile returned. She had an engaging smile—a bit shy, but spontaneous and genuine. It should have made Ryan feel better, but it didn't. It made him feel worse.

  At lunch, he did his best to act cheerful and nonchalant but couldn't quite bring it off, especially with Ollie sitting there, smiling knowingly, evaluating his performance like some demented theater critic. Well, it didn't matter what kind of reviews he got; the show was going to be closing soon.

  "So," said Mr. Kurz. "You about ready for a trip to town, champ?"

  "Whenever you are."

  "Good. How about we take the Thunderbird and feel the wind in our hair?"

  "Oh, Ken," said Ollie, "when are you going to grow up?"

  Mr. Kurz grinned. "With any luck, never."

  "If you take the T-Bird, then I can't come," Kelley protested.

  Ryan nearly choked on his carrot stick. It was going to be hard enough to slip away without Kelley tagging along.

  Mr. Kurz gave her a surprised look. "Did you want to?"

  "Of course. I'm going back to school next week, remember? I wanted to see Allen while I could."

  "Hey," Ryan said, hastily, "we'll be back this evening, right?" He looked to Mr. Kurz, who nodded. "All I was going to do was pick out a few clothes, anyway."

  "I could help you," Kelley said. "I like shopping for clothes."

  "Really?" said Ollie. "Then why do you seem to hate it so much every time I'm along?"

  "Because, Mother, you do all the choosing."

  "You wouldn't like going with me, either," Ryan said. "I'm very picky about clothes."

  "Really?" Kelley surveyed his worn corduroys and tacky pullover with a sarcastic look. "If you ask me, you need to be a little more picky."

  Mr. Kurz laughed and, licking his finger, made an invisible mark in the air. "Chalk one up for Kelley!"

  Kelley blushed. "Sorry. I guess I'm just being selfish. We'll still have plenty of time together, right?"

  "Sure," said Ryan. "Sure we will." The lie left a bad taste in his mouth. Or had Ollie doctored the carrot sticks? He pushed his plate aside.

  "Not hungry, Allen?" said Ollie with well-played concern.

  "My stomach's a little queasy, that's all."

  "Maybe you did have a virus after all," said Kelley. "He told me he practically froze to death last night. I thought it was just that the waterbed was cold."

  "Oh, dear." Ollie's mask of concern seemed to slip a bit, and Ryan thought he saw an edge of self-satisfaction peeking out.

  "We could take you to see Dr. Edwards while we're in town," said Mr. Kurz.

  "Hey, everybody quit worrying about me, okay?" Ryan snapped. "I'm fine." There was a sudden
silence. The others seemed very interested in what was on their plates. "I'm fine," Ryan repeated, more calmly.

  "Of course you are," said Ollie. "It's just that you don't seem to be quite yourself today."

  Sick of all the pretending and all the insinuations, Ryan gave her a look that was almost a challenge. "Yeah, well, maybe this is the real me."

  Ollie gazed at him coolly, a trace of amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. "If it is, I believe I'd keep it a secret." She turned to her husband. "You know, Ken, I think Allen needs to relax. Why don't you two take in a show?" Her gaze turned back to Ryan. "We have some excellent live theater in Halifax, you know."

  Mr. Kurz gave a rather shamefaced grin. "You know me; I'm not much of one for plays and that kind of thing. Maybe you are, though, Allen?"

  Glumly, Ryan said, "I'm not nearly as fond of it as I used to be."

  Chapter 19

  Kelley saddled up her mare and rode alongside the car as far as the highway, as if reluctant to let Ryan out of her sight. She was a perceptive girl; could she have somehow sensed that he wouldn't be back? When they were on the main road, Ryan turned to take a final look at the estate. Kelley was still there, looking small and alone.

  "Pretty, isn't it?" Mr. Kurz said. He'd removed the convertible's fiberglass roof, and they had to practically shout to be heard over the rush of wind.

  "What?"

  "I say, it's a pretty spot, isn't it?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, it is. I always wondered what Nova Scotia was like." Just for a change, he'd let a little truth slip in there. When he was seven or eight, he'd kept a map of the country pinned on the wall over his bed. On those nights when he couldn't sleep because his mother was playing the television too loud or singing show tunes or something, Ryan stared at it and imagined what it was like to live some other life in some other place.

  Other nights, he tried to guess where, in all that multicolored space, his father might be, and what sort of life he was leading. Some day when he wasn't expecting it, Ryan used to tell himself, he'd get a phone call or a letter from Winnipeg or Victoria or even Whitehorse. But no call or letter ever came.

  Maybe it was just as well. Judging from what his mother had told him, his dad wouldn't win any prizes. Ryan would probably be better off with his faux father, Ken Kurz. The truth was, if it hadn't been for Ollie, he wouldn't have minded filling Allen's shoes a while longer. Maybe a substitute father was better than no father at all. And maybe a live son, even if he was a fake, was better than a dead one.

  Mr. Kurz said abruptly, "How'd you like to stay?"

  Ryan gave him a startled glance. "What?"

  Mr. Kurz kept his eyes glued to the road, as if this were a topic he felt awkward discussing. "Would you like to stay with us? For a longer time, I mean. Nothing against your mother, but I think I can give you a better life than she can—as far as opportunities and money, anyway."

  There was another pretense that Ryan was tired of keeping up: the pretense that his mother—that is, Allen's mother—was alive. He nearly blurted out the truth. But it would only complicate things and make it even harder for him to extricate himself.

  "I think we get along pretty well, don't you?" Mr. Kurz was saying.

  "Uh … yeah, sure. I don't know how you'd feel after I beat you at chess about six hundred times."

  Mr. Kurz laughed heartily. "Dream on."

  To Ryan's relief, the man said no more about the matter. Maybe he wanted to give Ryan a chance to think about it, or maybe he considered it settled. For the rest of the trip, he asked Ryan about how he was doing in school and what his career plans were, and Ryan improvised appropriate answers. Allen's plans were certainly more ambitious than his own. Ryan really had nothing in mind beyond trying to get into an arts high school. Allen—in Ryan's scenario, anyway—had already settled on McGill University and a major in pre-med.

  "You want to be a doctor?" Mr. Kurz said with obvious surprise.

  "Well, yeah. Internal medicine, maybe. You don't think it's a good idea?"

  "No, no, it's fine. I just never imagined a son of mine would be a doctor, that's all. This wouldn't be your mother's idea, by any chance?"

  "No, it was my decision."

  "Good. Never do something just because somebody else wants you to, okay?" The way he said that, it sounded like he was leaving something else unsaid—something about his own life, maybe. Maybe, in spite of all his wealth, he wasn't living the life he would have chosen.

  "Okay," Ryan replied. "I won't."

  "And you know that money's no problem, right? Whatever it costs—your schooling, whatever—I've got it covered, okay?"

  Ryan smiled weakly. "Thanks." He only wished it were true, that money were no problem. If he decided to go to university or film school or something, he couldn't imagine how he'd pay for it, even if he collected the money Burton owed him, which was beginning to look very iffy.

  As they neared the city, the traffic got heavier but Mr. Kurz didn't seem to mind. He whipped around the other cars like a race driver, more than once making Ryan wince and close his eyes, waiting for the crash. When he squeezed the T-Bird into an impossibly small parking space downtown, Ryan sighed with relief.

  As they climbed out, Mr. Kurz gestured toward a tall office building with the Royal Bank of Canada logo on the front. "I've got business to take care of in there. I'll probably be an hour at the most. Colwell Brothers is just down the block. Why don't you see if you can find yourself some clothes?" He took out his wallet. "Geez, all I have on me is three twenties. Here, you take that, in case you want a drink or something. They know me at Colwell's. Just have them hold the stuff and I'll pay for it with plastic, okay?"

  "Ah … sure. Fine."

  "You'll be okay by yourself, right?"

  "Oh, yeah. No problem. This is practically a small town, compared to T—" He'd almost said Toronto "—to Montreal."

  "Well, take your time and look around. Maybe you'll decide to stay."

  "Yeah," Ryan said half-heartedly. "Maybe."

  "I'd better move it. I've got a two o'clock appointment." He paused a beat, as if there were something else on his mind, but he wasn't sure he wanted to say it. "Maybe I should tell you—" he paused again "—no, never mind. I'll let it be a surprise. You go do your shopping and we'll meet back here around three-thirty, okay, champ?"

  The moment Mr. Kurz entered the office building, Ryan shoved the money in the front pocket of his pants, checked his back pocket to make sure he had the airline ticket, and hurried off down the street. Before he'd gone half a block, he turned back. He couldn't just split without saying where or why. Mr. Kurz would have the whole Halifax police force out looking for him. Besides, it would be cruel to just leave him hanging. He owed the guy some kind of explanation. Kelley, too.

  He trotted back to the car and rummaged through the glove compartment until he found a pen and an old rbc deposit slip saying that, on January 14, Mr. Kurz had added $15,984.36 to his account, bringing the balance to $92,565.77. And who knew how many other accounts he had in other banks? Ryan shook his head incredulously. Maybe Mr. Kurz would consider adopting a poor, struggling actor as a replacement for Allen. But somehow, he didn't think Ollie would go for the idea.

  He turned the slip over and stared at the blank side, trying to think of an appropriate message. Finally, he printed, as ollie will tell you, i'm not allen. i swear i never meant any harm. burton can explain. He paused again and then, as if possessed by the spirit of Allen, impulsively scrawled, please forgive me.

  He folded the paper and stuck it in the crack between the horn and steering wheel, where Mr. Kurz couldn't miss it. Then he took a deep breath and started off again. After walking for a couple of blocks, he waved down a cab and climbed in. "Can you take me to the airport?" he said.

  Chapter 20

  The ride to the airport used up twenty-five of the sixty bucks Mr. Kurz had handed him. If he bought a cheap meal and took a bus home from the Toronto airport, he'd be lucky to have fifty cents l
eft. What a comedown from the $13,000 he'd expected to bring home. And how was he going to explain his sudden return to his mother?

  The thought of his mother brought to mind something that Burton's secretary had said on the phone that morning. He'd been in such a daze that it hadn't really registered at the time. What had she said, exactly? Something about his mother calling Burton's office. But that made no sense. There was no way his mother could have possibly connected Burton, the supposed stage manager, with Burton, the private eye. Unless …

  Unless the secretary meant Allen's mother. But that made even less sense, because Allen's mother was dead. Or so Burton said. But Burton hadn't exactly been an unimpeachable source of information so far. Ryan sighed wearily. Well, there was no point in trying to puzzle it out now. He'd just have to wait until he talked to his mother, or to Burton.

  The next flight to Toronto wasn't until 4:15. He had plenty of time to grab something to eat, luckily. His stomach was sending out urgent hunger signals. It was always the same: Before a performance, he couldn't keep anything down; the minute it was over, he was ravenous. After soup and a sandwich at the food court, he found the Air Canada counter and handed his ticket to the clerk. "Can I get on the 4:15 flight?"

  "Let me check." While she did her thing, Ryan watched the other passengers come and go, something he always did in public places; you never knew when you might pick up a good bit of stage business.

  "Mr. Kurz?" said the clerk. Ryan's glanced around in alarm. How on earth could Mr. Kurz have found him here? "Allen?" the clerk tried, and it dawned on Ryan that she was talking to him.

  "Yes?" he said irritably. He'd foolishly thought he was all through being Allen.

  "I'm afraid you've given me the wrong ticket. There's nothing here but your receipt for your one-way flight from Toronto."

  Ryan blinked stupidly at her. "What?"

  "See for yourself." She held out what Ryan had assumed was his return ticket. "One-way from Toronto to Halifax."

  "That—that's impossible!" But, in fact, it made perfect, sickening sense. Back at the Toronto airport, when Burton had tried to charge the tickets, the clerk said he'd exceeded his credit limit. Ryan just figured that it was some sort of mistake, and that Burton would straighten it out. Well, he'd straightened it out, all right: since he didn't have enough for two round trips, he'd bought them one-way tickets.