The Imposter

by Gary Blackwood

  Just when it seemed that the mare was sure to crash head-on into the fence, by some equine magic, she turned her forward motion into upward motion. For a breath-stealing moment, they were airborne. Ryan didn't know by what fraction of an inch they cleared the fence; his eyes were squeezed shut.

  When the horse's hooves hit the ground, Ryan's eyes flew open. By some miracle, they had made it in one piece. "Good lord!" Ryan breathed.

  Kelley laughed a bit wildly. "Scare you?"

  "Oh, no. I do this all the time. Whenever I'm not bungee-jumping."

  Ryan heard the sound of a siren behind them. Twisting his head around, he glimpsed the rcmp car pulling onto the highway, its lights flashing. "Don't worry," Kelley said, "he can't follow us where we're going." They pounded across an open meadow and into the woods on the far side.

  "Where exactly are we going?"

  "You'll see." She guided the horse carefully through the trees, heading downhill. At the foot of the hill lay a creek that fed into the Avon River. "Hang on," she said again.

  "Not the creek! Please, not the—"

  "Come on, girl!" Kelley dug in her heels. The mare plunged down the muddy bank and into the water. To Ryan's relief, it came only up to the horse's knees. She splashed across, soaking their legs, and scrambled up the far bank.

  "Well, you're right," Ryan said. "I don't think he's going to follow us. I just want to know one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "Did you ever do that before?"

  "Ford the creek?"

  "No. Jump the fence."

  "Oh, sure, lots of times. Just never with an extra person on board."

  "Yeah, well, do me a favor and don't ever do it again, okay?"

  "We won't have to. It's pretty much open land from here to Windsor."

  "What's in Windsor?"

  "The bus depot."

  They came upon an abandoned logging road and followed it for half a kilometer or so, then switched to a wider dirt road with a few houses on it. Meanwhile, Ryan told Kelley the whole complicated tale of how Burton had hired him, and why.

  "How long were you supposed to keep up the act?" she asked.

  "Just for a week or two."

  "So you weren't really after Daddy's money?"

  "Heck, no. I never dreamed he'd put me in his will." When Kelley didn't respond, Ryan said, "You believe me, don't you?"

  "What does it matter whether I believe you or not?"

  "I just don't want you thinking that I lied to you."

  "You did lie to me."

  "Well, yeah. But then I told you the truth about lying to you."

  "That doesn't make it okay."

  "No. I know that."

  They rode in silence for a while. Finally she said, "I believe you, all right?"

  "All right. Good."

  After an hour of very uncomfortable riding, they emerged onto a paved road near a bridge that spanned the Avon, which was fifty meters or more across at this point. "Okay, this is the only tricky part," said Kelley. "If that Mountie comes along while we're in the middle of the bridge, we're sunk."

  "Can't we go some other way?"

  "You want to swim across?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Then hang on." She urged Winnie into a trot. The crossing seemed to take twice as long as it should have, like a movie scene that's filmed in slo-mo. When a law-enforcement—style white sedan approached them, Ryan nearly panicked, until he realized that what looked like a set of lights on the roof was actually just a luggage rack.

  Once they were across, Kelley took them down a narrow, potholed back street. "Do you need money for the bus fare?"

  "I've got seventy-five cents. You think that'll cover it?"

  "Not quite. I'll stop at the bank."

  They followed a set of railroad tracks for a couple of blocks and ended up in a small parking lot behind the Bank of Commerce. While Kelley was inside, Ryan sat, looking warily around. He'd been half-afraid that they might find the streets barricaded by rcmp cars and armed Mounties. But everything looked peaceful and normal. He drew a few amused looks from other bank customers; none of them seemed alarmed in the least. Kelley reappeared and handed him four fifty-dollar bills. "That'll be plenty."

  "Thanks. You sure you want to do this? After all, you're aiding and abetting a fugitive."

  "Maybe. But you're not exactly a criminal, are you? I mean, what you did was wrong, but you don't deserve to go to jail for it."

  "I don't deserve to have you help me, either."

  "Probably not."

  "So why did you?"

  "I don't know. I guess because that's what—" He knew she was about to say, That's what sisters are for. Instead, after a moment's pause, she shrugged and said, "Because that's what friends are for."

  After clopping along another back street, they headed cross-country again, past the ball fields and the high school, then crossed the big highway that had brought him here several days earlier. Kelley reined the horse in behind Donut Land. "We're going to have doughnuts?" Ryan said. His stomach, already in turmoil from all that had happened, including the horseback ride, rebelled at the notion of food, especially deep-fried food.

  "If you want," said Kelley. "But I really stopped here because it's the bus station."

  "Donut Land?"

  "Welcome to small-town Nova Scotia." Their timing was excellent; the next bus for Halifax was due in fifteen minutes. While Ryan bought a ticket, Kelley bought cups of tea and took a table next to the front window.

  "See any police cars?" Ryan asked.

  "Nope. I guess you're home free."

  "Thanks to you." He cleared his throat nervously. "Look, I really am sorry. It was a rotten thing to do, letting you think I was Allen."

  "I'll live. Anyway, you know what Shakespeare said."

  "There's some good in everything?"

  "He also said, Better to have had a brother and lost him than never to have had a brother at all."

  "Shakespeare didn't say that."

  "Okay, maybe it was Tennyson. Listen, would you mind if I wrote to you sometime? Oh. I guess I can't write you, can I? I don't even know where you live."

  "Toronto," said Ryan. He didn't give her any details. His life there was so shabby, compared to what she was used to. He could have gotten used to her way of life, too, given a chance. In fact, now that he'd had a taste of it, it was going to be tough to go back to macaroni and cheese and chasing cockroaches. "Tell you what. I'll write to you first; then you'll have my address."

  She gazed out the window for a moment. Then she said softly, "No. Now that I think about it, I don't think it's such a good idea."

  "Why?"

  "Because. It wouldn't be fair."

  "Fair? To who? Oh. I get it." To Allen, she meant. And she was right, of course. Now that she had a real brother, why did she need him? Really, it was a stroke of luck, Allen turning up like that. Ryan was off the hook. He didn't even have the painful task of telling her that her brother was dead. All he had to do was bow out, like an understudy gratefully giving up a part he was never prepared to play.

  So why did he feel so … so what, exactly? Resentful? No, the truth was, he felt jealous. He'd never had a sister, and could barely remember his father. It wasn't that he wanted to take over Allen's life, or anything. It was just that he wouldn't have minded playing the role a little longer. If he could have just replaced Ollie, somehow.

  "So," he said. "I guess I'll just watch for your first book to come out, then. Don't use a pen name, okay?"

  She gave an embarrassed laugh. "I won't. I'll want everybody to know it's me. And I guess I'll watch for you in the movies, huh?"

  "You remember what my name is? My real name?"

  She dropped her gaze and nodded. "Ryan," she said softly, with just a trace of bitterness. "Ryan Waite."

  "Just give me a couple of years and I'll be up there playing opposite Madonna."

  "Oh, she's too old for you."

  "Yeah, and she's not my type, anyway."


  "Oh? Who is your type?"

  "Well, if you were a couple of years older …"

  She blushed furiously. "Stop it."

  "Hey, it's okay. You're not really my sister, remember?"

  "Yeah, well, I was up until a couple of hours ago."

  Ryan glanced up at the clock. The bus was due any minute. "Listen, will you do something for me? Will you tell Dad … I mean your dad … will you explain everything to him, and tell him I'm sorry and that I didn't mean to hurt anybody?"

  She nodded soberly. "I'll tell him." Then she gave a mischievous grin. "Anything you want me to tell Mother?"

  "Yeah." He was about to say, Tell her she'd make a great Lady Macbeth, but something stopped him, something like a twinge of guilt. "Tell her … tell her I'm sorry, too." Hearing the hiss of air brakes outside, he turned to the window. The bus had pulled in, as expected. What he hadn't expected was the rcmp car that had parked right across the road. "Uh-oh."

  "What's wrong?"

  "The fuzz are here. And what do you bet they're looking for me?"

  The bus driver pushed open the front door of Donut Land and called, "Any passengers for Halifax?"

  "Oh, man," Ryan whispered to Kelley, "how do I get on the bus without being seen?"

  Kelley bit her lip thoughtfully. Then she said abruptly, "I've got it covered." She leaned over and gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. "Take care, okay?"

  "But how … what—?"

  "Trust me!" she called as she headed for the back door.

  "Trust you?" Ryan muttered. "How can I trust you when I don't know what the heck you're doing?"

  The driver glanced at the bus ticket in Ryan's hand. "Are you a passenger, son?"

  "Ah … I'm not sure …"

  The driver raised his eyebrows. "Well, do you suppose you could make up your mind?"

  "Umm … well, it's just that …" At that moment, something outside the window caught his eye. A figure on horseback was trotting down the road, right past the police car. "Kelley!" whispered Ryan. "What is she doing?" But, of course, it was perfectly obvious. She was playing decoy, trying to lure the police car away.

  It worked. The Mountie switched on his flashing lights and went after her. Ryan dashed outside to watch the scene unfold. As the police car pulled up beside her, Kelley urged the mare into a trot. Ryan gasped in alarm as she swung her mount to the right, into the path of the slow-moving police car. But then she made a wide arc and headed for the left shoulder. There were no businesses on that side of the road, just a shallow ditch and, beyond it, open fields. The mare cleared the ditch effortlessly and went thundering across the field, throwing up clods of dirt.

  "Kelley, you idiot!" Ryan breathed, but there was no censure in his voice, only admiration. The bus driver honked at him, and he realized he was blocking the way. He ran around to the door of the bus, brandishing his ticket. "Wait, wait! I want to get on!" The door hissed open. Ryan scrambled up the steps and sank down in the nearest empty seat.

  The mind is a curious and unpredictable thing. As the bus pulled away, Ryan wasn't thinking about Kelley or Ollie or Mr. Kurz or how close he had come to being caught. He was thinking, I never did get to see the ocean.

  Chapter 26

  The ride from Halifax to Toronto took a little over twenty-four hours, and Ryan slept for at least half of it. It had been an exhausting week. He'd had a lot longer gigs, but normally he was onstage only a couple of hours each night, not every minute of the day.

  How long had he actually been gone? Four days? Five? He wasn't sure. It seemed a lot longer. So long, in fact, that he felt almost like a different person. He'd had that same sensation before. After a long run in a play, he often felt changed, somehow, as if shards of his character's personality had worked their way into his own.

  Each time the bus pulled in at a station, he half-expected to find the police waiting for him, but they never were. And each time they stopped for a meal, he considered calling his mother, but he never did. He wasn't ready to tell her the truth yet, not until he'd rehearsed a little.

  He could just keep the lie going, of course, the one about being in Oliver. He'd have no trouble making up a reasonable explanation for his sudden return. Really, it didn't even need to be all that reasonable; the theater was a pretty strange world. He could say that anti-Semitic skinheads had beaten up Fagin and the show had to be canceled. Or that they got some teenage rock star to play the Artful Dodger. Or … well, the possibilities were endless. His mom was a lot easier to fool than Ollie. But he'd had his fill of lies.

  Thinking about Ollie brought back that twinge of guilt he'd felt earlier. It was funny, but now that he was out of her clutches, he felt like maybe he sort of … almost … well, understood her a little bit. Directors were always saying how you needed to know your character's motivations. If you gave it a little thought, Ollie's motivations were pretty clear.

  For twelve years, life in the Kurz family had revolved around her and what she wanted, for herself and for Kelley, and, suddenly, the situation had changed. Even if Ryan really had been Allen, it would have been tough for her, having to treat some strange kid like a son, especially when the kid had a claim on some of Mr. Kurz's millions. You could hardly blame her for coming down hard on somebody who actually was a stranger. And, of course, now she was going to have to deal with the real Allen, anyway.

  Ryan shook his head. These were unlikely thoughts for him to be having. He'd never been much good at seeing somebody else's point of view, especially somebody he disliked as much as Ollie. Maybe he was still channeling the spirit of Allen. Or maybe he was suddenly experiencing—what was the term that director had used, when he was criticizing Ryan's acting? Oh, yeah, empathy. Maybe he was just experiencing empathy.

  When they reached Toronto, he still had almost fifty dollars, but he couldn't bring himself to spend any of it on a taxi or even a city bus. Who knew how long it might have to last them? He needed more time to think about what he was going to say to his mother, anyway, so he walked from the bus terminal to their apartment building.

  Through the door of the apartment he could hear his mother singing, "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" along with Patti LuPone. He pounded loudly on the door. Mr. Bondi stuck his head out of the downstairs apartment and hollered, "Hey, keep it down up there!"

  "How about if you keep it up down there, instead?" Ryan replied in a Groucho Marx voice, then sighed and muttered to himself, "There's no place like home … there's no place like home."

  He was about to use his foot on the door when it opened a crack and his mother said irritably, "What?" When she saw him, her mouth fell open. "Ryan! What are you doing here? What happened? Did they fire you?"

  "If you let me in, I'll tell you."

  She was dressed only in her housecoat and her hair was uncombed. The apartment was as stuffy as ever, and even messier. Paper plates, some containing half-eaten sandwiches, occupied every bit of table and chair that wasn't already taken up with newspapers, junk mail, or trashy paperback books. "I meant to clean up," his mother said defensively. "I've been busy."

  Ryan nodded and cleared off a chair. "Sit down, Mom." He set about washing out the coffee pot and some cups, but what he was really doing was stalling for time. He put the pot aside and turned to look at her.

  She shifted uncomfortably and put a hand to the scarred side of her face. "Why are you looking at me that way?"

  "Just thinking." Actually, he was wondering why he should tell her the harsh truth, when she would much rather be told a pleasant lie. Like Kelley and Mr. Kurz, she would believe him because she wanted to. But did that make it all right?

  "Thinking about what?" his mother said.

  Ryan cleared off another chair and sat down next to her. "I was thinking that it's time I told you the truth."

  She took it pretty well, actually. She didn't seem all that upset that he'd lied to her. She was mainly mad at Burton for misleading him. "I knew there was something fishy about that man all along. He didn't
look like a stage manager to me."

  "Oh? How is a stage manager supposed to look?"

  She laughed. "Like the one in Our Town, I suppose."

  "Well, I never thought Burton looked much like a private eye, either. I mean, he's no Magnum, P.I."

  "He was a nice-looking man, though."

  "If you say so."

  "Your father was good looking, too. Quite handsome, in fact. It just goes to show you: You can't judge a book by its cover."

  "Was he really that bad? Dad, I mean. He must have had some good points, or you wouldn't have married him."

  Ryan figured she'd go into her usual routine about how he'd ruined her life. But for some reason, she didn't. Maybe it was because she was sober. Or maybe the fact that Ryan had come clean made her want to do the same.

  She gave a weary, almost defeated sigh. "Oh, I suppose there were things I liked about him. It's hard to remember. It was all so long ago, it seems like another life." She gave a bitter laugh. "It was another life. And I was another person—enthusiastic, witty, pretty." She hummed a snatch of "I Feel Pretty." "Pretty and witty and bright … and vain, I suppose. I liked having people tell me how pretty I looked. Your father, though, he never would say much about how I looked. I was always trying to get him to give me a compliment and he never would. If I said, 'How do I look?' he'd say, 'Fine.' That was it. 'Fine.'"

  "That's better than saying you looked lousy, isn't it?"

  She gave him a perturbed look. "Men. You're all alike."

  "Well, he told you that you looked fine. What else could he say?"

  "I don't know. Something. I went to a lot of trouble to look nice for him. I remember one night, we were going out to a dinner theater or something, and I'd spent the whole day doing my hair and making over a dress—I certainly couldn't afford a new one on his salary—and he never even noticed. He just helped me in the car and drove off. I was so angry with him, I said, 'Mike, if you don't say something nice about my hair or my dress, I swear I'm never going anywhere with you again!' He turned to me with this real surprised look on his face, like he couldn't imagine what I was so upset about. And you know, he never did say anything."