The Imposter

by Gary Blackwood

  Ryan looked at the airfare on the receipt: $148. For $35, which was all he had left, they might let him ride in the baggage compartment, provided he parachuted out somewhere over Quebec. Unless he wanted to hitchhike to Toronto—which, according to an actor friend of his, was like offering yourself up for sacrifice—he had no choice but to go back. Back to the actor's nightmare, back to the theater of the absurd for one final performance.

  The funny thing was, some part of him actually wanted to return. He might have a lot of other shortcomings, but he was not a quitter. Leaving now would be like walking off the stage in the middle of the second act. He still had some lines left to say.

  By the time he caught a cab, it was after three o'clock. Mr. Kurz would be done with his meeting soon, if he wasn't already. He might well be waiting at the car. Maybe he'd even found the note and was opening it, reading it …. If Ryan didn't get back before that happened, he would be stuck between a large rock and an extremely hard place, unable either to leave or to stay.

  "Where to?" asked the cab driver.

  "The Royal Bank building. And can you make it fast?"

  "Sure, if you don't mind paying the speeding ticket."

  They pulled up next to the Thunderbird at a quarter to four. He peered through the windshield of the taxi. Mr. Kurz wasn't in the car, or anywhere near it. Ryan climbed out and paid the driver. Shading his eyes, he surveyed the area around the office building. Still no sign of Mr. Kurz. It looked as if he was home free.

  It didn't look that way for long. When he slid onto the front seat of the Thunderbird and leaned over to retrieve the note he'd left stuck in the steering wheel, there was nothing to retrieve. The note was gone. Ryan groaned. Had Mr. Kurz been here, after all? If so, where was he now? At the police station, rounding up a search party?

  Ryan put a hand to his throbbing head. Wait a second, now. Maybe he was going off the deep end. The wind had picked up a lot since he left, and the T-Bird was topless; maybe the note had just got blown away. If so, it could still be in the car somewhere. He searched on the floor and under the seats. Nothing. Now what? He couldn't just sit here, waiting to be apprehended. But there was no sense in running scared, either, before he knew for sure what the situation was.

  He got out and stood uncertainly on the sidewalk for a minute, looking around. Then, feeling exposed and vulnerable, he crossed the street to the Bluenose Restaurant. He bought a cup of coffee and sat in the front window, where he had a good view of the Thunderbird.

  Two cups of coffee later, he was still sitting there. So was the car, but it now had a parking ticket on the windshield. Restless, Ryan went outside and loitered on the sidewalk for a while, wondering what his next move should be.

  He was worse off now than he had been back at the Kurzes'. As difficult as his part had been, at least he'd had some notion of how to play it. Now he was clueless. Why would Mr. Kurz fail to show up? Surely his business meeting couldn't be taking this long. Not knowing what else to do, Ryan crossed the street and entered the rbc building.

  The lobby was deserted except for a scrawny, elderly commissionaire at a desk. "Can I help you, young fellow?"

  Ryan went into a worried son act; at the moment, it wasn't much of a stretch. "I hope so, sir. I'm looking for my father. He said he had to see somebody in this building, but I'm not sure exactly who."

  The old man laughed. "There's at least fifty different offices here, son, besides the bank. Any idea what kind of business he was here for?"

  "No, sir, I don't."

  "Afraid I can't help you, then. Was he supposed to meet you somewhere?"

  "Just outside. But that was four hours ago."

  The security guard shook his head. "Sure wish I knew what to tell you."

  Ryan nodded glumly. "That's okay. I'll just …" He trailed off. He'd just what? He had no idea.

  As he turned to go, the guard said, "Wait a second, now. Look, I don't want to worry you for nothing, but the fellow on duty before me said there was an ambulance here about two or three o'clock, and they took somebody off to the hospital. You don't suppose that could have been him?"

  "I … I don't know. I guess it's possible. Maybe I ought to check."

  "Tell you what; I'll call them for you. It'll be the Victoria General, most likely. What's your daddy's name?"

  "Mr. Kurz. Kenneth." Ryan waited anxiously while the guard placed the call. When he hung up, he turned to Ryan with a sober, sympathetic look. "Was it him?" Ryan asked.

  "Afraid so, son."

  "Did they … did they say what it was? I mean, is he sick, or what?"

  The guard tapped his scrawny chest. "Heart," he said. "It was his heart."

  Chapter 21

  All the way to the hospital, Ryan kept thinking, It was the note. Mr. Kurz had read the note he left, and the shock was too much for him. According to Kelley, her dad often got chest pains when he was stressed or upset. If he'd read the note, he couldn't help but be upset. That meant his heart attack was Ryan's fault.

  It also meant that Ryan's cover was blown, that the game was up. So why was he in a cab, heading for the hospital? If Mr. Kurz was going to die, there was nothing Ryan could do to prevent it. And if he pulled through, he was probably going to have Ryan arrested.

  Ryan knew he should just get out while he could, catch a ride with a trucker or something, and never look back. Maybe this latest development was his fault, but all the rest of it could be chalked up to Burton. Burton had dreamed up this scheme and then lied to him to get him to go along with it. Why should Ryan take the rap? He was just a pawn, an actor. An actor couldn't be held responsible for a rotten play just because he'd had a part in it.

  Ryan sighed. He wasn't just lying to other people, now; he was lying to himself. The fact was, he could have bailed out long ago, before things went so far. Or he could have turned down the job right at the beginning. That's what he should have done; he realized that now.

  Of course, that didn't help matters a whole lot. If Mr. Kurz had had a heart attack, or was dying, no amount of realization or regret on his part was going to make a bit of difference. And there was no way he could make it up to Kelley for all the hurt and disappointment this would cause her. All he could do for either of them was to tell them he was sorry. He had a feeling it was what Allen would have done.

  At the hospital admissions desk, Ryan said, "Could you please tell me what room Kenneth Kurz is in?"

  The receptionist checked a computer terminal. "He's in icu. No visitors except for immediate family."

  "It's okay, then. I'm his son." He didn't know why he said it; there was certainly no point in posing as Allen now. But he had to see Mr. Kurz—to explain, to apologize—and the only way he could do that was by keeping the pretense going. He had to lie again at the nurses' station on the fifth floor, and he almost choked on it.

  When the nurse ushered him into Mr. Kurz's room, Ollie and Kelley were standing next to the bed, along with a man Ryan had never seen before. His stomach knotted up and he stepped backward, meaning to retreat as quickly and quietly as he could. But it was too late. The door swung shut, bumping him in the butt, and Kelley glanced his way.

  Her eyes widened with some look he couldn't quite decipher—probably astonishment that he would have the nerve to show up here. "Allen!" she cried softly. Allen? Why was she still calling him that? Surely she knew by now.

  Ollie swung around to face him, and her expression was even tougher to read. "Well," she said coolly, "thank goodness. We were wondering how to get in touch with you."

  Ryan didn't have the vaguest idea how to play this scene. "Yeah, well," he said lamely, and shuffled closer to the bed. "How … how is he?"

  "Don't talk about me as if I'm not here," said Mr. Kurz's voice, faint but unexpectedly feisty.

  Ryan moved to the foot of the bed. Mr. Kurz lay propped up by pillows, with an oxygen tube taped to his upper lip. His face was pale and drawn, but he was smiling crookedly. He raised a hand weakly in greeting. "Hey, champ; sor
ry to leave you in the lurch that way."

  "No problem." He jumped a little as Kelley slipped her hand into his and squeezed it lightly, sending a clear signal that she was glad he was here. But why would she be glad? "I'm just happy to see that you're okay," he told Mr. Kurz. "You are okay, aren't you?"

  "Never better. Well, actually, I'd be better if I had a cold beer."

  "I could use something stronger than that," said the man Ryan didn't recognize. "You had me worried for a while there, Ken. I thought I was going to lose my best client."

  "Ahh, the world is full of clients."

  "None like you. Promise me that from now on, you'll take the elevator."

  Mr. Kurz laughed feebly. "With what I pay you, you could get an office on the first floor."

  "Will you two stop?" Ollie put in. "What you need is not a beer but a good, long rest. The doctor says you're out of danger, so we're going to leave you alone and come back in the morning, all right?"

  "Only if I get kisses first."

  She planted a swift, dutiful peck on his cheek. Kelley's kiss was more enthusiastic, and she followed it with a very careful hug. "Get well quick, Daddy."

  "You know me. They can't keep me down for long." As the four visitors started out the door, Mr. Kurz said, "Allen?" Ryan must have flinched, because Mr. Kurz laughed and said, "Don't worry, you don't have to give me a kiss. I just want to talk a minute."

  "Oh. Ah … sure." It was showdown time. The man had just been waiting to have it out with Ryan before he told the others.

  Mr. Kurz patted the edge of the bed. "Take a load off."

  Ryan remained standing. "That's okay. What did you want to talk about?" As if he didn't know.

  Mr. Kurz's expression turned serious. "As you probably gathered, that was my lawyer."

  Ryan nodded and swallowed hard. If they'd called in a lawyer, that meant he was in deep doo-doo.

  "I hate waiting," Mr. Kurz was saying, "especially waiting for elevators. So, like an idiot I took the stairs up to his office. That's what made the old ticker act up."

  "It was?" Ryan caught himself in time to keep from blurting out, You mean, it wasn't my note? He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. If he understood the situation correctly, Mr. Kurz hadn't returned to the car at all, which meant he hadn't found the note or read it. Ryan's first hunch had probably been right, after all—the paper had just blown away in the wind.

  "Now, I promise never to run up another flight of stairs," Mr. Kurz went on. "But just in case something else happens to me, I want you to know this: the reason I went to the lawyer was to make out a new will—one that includes you."

  Ryan's throat felt so tight and dry that he barely managed to croak, "Me?"

  "Yes, you. By the way, even if I hadn't pulled through, you wouldn't have had to worry. I got the darn thing signed before I collapsed."

  "I wasn't worried." Well, that was true in a sense. Worry didn't begin to describe what he was feeling. Panic would be a much better word. Up until now, all he'd been guilty of was passing himself off as somebody else, which was surely no more than a misdemeanor. Now, suddenly, he was party to a fraud involving millions of dollars, and he was pretty sure that was a crime of major proportions.

  Chapter 22

  When Ryan emerged from the Intensive Care Unit, he found Ollie waiting next to the coffee vending machine, talking with the lawyer. The moment she spotted Ryan, she held up a warning hand to the lawyer. Whatever they'd been discussing, they obviously didn't want him to hear it. No doubt it had something to do with Mr. Kurz's will. Great. If Ollie had resented him before, now she would be out for his blood. It was time to make his exit. Unfortunately, he would have to run the gauntlet to do it.

  Ollie gave him a smile that would have curdled milk. "Ready to go?"

  "I certainly am. I just want to hit the washroom first." And then, with any luck, just keep on going.

  It wasn't going to be that easy. The lawyer blocked his way and thrust out a hand—but not to seize him, just to shake hands. "I'm Skip Harris."

  Skip? Who would hire a lawyer named Skip? It sounded more like a camp counselor.

  Ryan shook the lawyer's hand with fake enthusiasm. "Glad to meet you. I'm—" He had trouble making himself say the lie one more time; luckily the lawyer did it for him.

  "You're Allen Kurz."

  "Right."

  Skip Harris had a shrewd and calculating look in his eye, as if he were cross-examining a witness. "Your dad's told me a lot about you."

  Ryan knew he should say as little as possible and make his escape. But the man's smug manner rubbed him the wrong way. If this guy wanted to play games, Ryan would show him he wasn't playing with an amateur. "Really? That's funny. Because he doesn't know much about me; he hasn't seen me in twelve years."

  "So I've heard. A person can change a lot in twelve years. In fact, you might say they're not really the same person at all."

  Ryan knew the guy was trying to make him nervous, trying to get him to slip up. It wouldn't work. He went into his nerdy Allen voice. "I suppose you might. But scientific studies show that our basic personality traits are present at birth and don't change significantly throughout our lives." He paused a beat to glance at Ollie, then back to Skip. "Obviously, some of us were luckier than others."

  Skip's smug expression looked a little strained. "Ollie tells me you're from Toronto."

  Nice try. "Montreal, actually."

  "Ah. I suppose you're a big Canucks fan, then?"

  Ryan was not a major hockey fan, but he wasn't stupid, either. "That's Vancouver. We're the Canadiens."

  "Ah, that's right. My mistake." The lawyer stepped closer, almost in Ryan's face; in his witness-stand voice, he demanded, "Do you know anyone named Ryan Waite?"

  "Ryan Waite. Ryan Waite. Hmmm. Isn't he an actor?"

  "An actor."

  "That's right. Ah, I remember now. He played the father in that American tv series, The Waltons." Ryan frowned. "No, wait a minute. That was Ralph Waite, wasn't it?"

  "I'm sure I don't know," said Skip Harris irritably.

  "So, who is this Ryan Waite?"

  "Well, we don't know that, either." The lawyer gave Ollie a sharp glance that Ryan easily read. It said, If this kid is an imposter, why is he so sure of himself?

  The look Ollie shot back said, I could have done a better job of interrogating him myself. She smiled frostily at Ryan. "Well, I suppose we may as well go home. Where did Kelley get to?"

  "I haven't seen her. Look, I really need to use the men's room; I drank a lot of coffee while I was waiting for my dad. Nice to have met you, Mr. Waite."

  "Harris," the lawyer said.

  "Oh, right. Sorry."

  He had no idea where the washrooms were. He just wanted to get away. He turned a corner and nearly collided with Kelley, who was lounging against the wall, holding a can of Pepsi. "There you are," she said.

  "And there you are. Your mom's looking for you. She's ready to leave."

  "Darn. Just let me finish this. You want a sip?"

  Though he didn't care much for pop, his throat was so parched that he nearly drained the can. "I didn't know you drank such unhealthy stuff."

  Kelley grinned. "Only when I can get away with it. Don't tell Mother, okay?"

  "Hey, you can trust me," he said. Sure, she could count on him to keep her little secret. It was just when it came to really important stuff that he couldn't be trusted.

  "You want any more of this?" She held out the Pepsi again.

  "No, thanks. I've had all I can stand." And he wasn't just talking about the pop. He'd had all the lies he could stand, too. If he had to tell another one, he was liable to throw up.

  Ever since this whole masquerade began, he'd been justifying deception after deception by telling himself he was just playing a part, no different from all the other parts he'd played. But he understood now that there was a big difference. When you were acting onstage, you had the audience's consent to lie to them. They knew perfectly well
that it was all made up, but they chose to accept it, for as long as the show lasted.

  Real life didn't work that way. When you were dealing with real people and not characters in a play, you had to believe that they were actually telling the truth. Without that one simple ground rule, you could never be sure of anything. What kind of world would it be if doctors told patients whatever suited their purpose? If teachers filled their students with false information? If politicians said whatever their constituents wanted to hear … well, okay, they were living in that world already.

  "Allen? Are you all right?"

  He raised his eyes to meet hers, just for a second. But, in that second, he realized that he was going to have to tell her the truth. It would hurt him nearly as much as it did her, but, if he wanted to live with himself, he had to do it.

  "Are you all right?" she repeated.

  "Yeah. Yeah. There's just one thing I need to do."

  "What's that?"

  He held up one hand as a signal to give him a second. Then he opened his mouth and let out a prodigious belch. "Aaah. That's better."

  "What a hog," she said, but she couldn't help giggling.

  He was going to level with her, all right. Just not now. There was no time. He wasn't used to telling the truth; it was a lot harder than lying. He couldn't just wing it; he needed some time to rehearse.

  Chapter 23

  Ryan was about as eager to return to the Kurz estate as Orpheus was to enter the Underworld. But it was the only way he was going to get Kelley alone for long enough to explain everything to her.

  Sandy was waiting outside with the Mercedes, looking pleased to be a chauffeur instead of a gardener for a change. "Oh, shoot," Kelley said. "What about the T-Bird?"

  "It's in front of the rbc building," Ryan said.