The Imposter Page 8

  They sat on the bank for most of an hour, tossing stones into the water and talking of mostly inconsequential things. "What did your dad mean before," said Ryan, "about you not having many more chances to be with me?"

  Kelley pursed her lips in a look of distaste. "I've got to go back to school soon."

  "Already?"

  "We start earlier than you do. I guess the parents want to make sure they get their money's worth. Or maybe they just want to get rid of their kids." She blushed. "I didn't mean that my parents are like that. Sorry, our parents."

  "I know. It's too bad, though." Ryan's disappointment was genuine. If she left, there'd be nobody at all on his side.

  "Yeah. I wish I could just go to public school like everybody else and come home every night. Sometimes being rich is a big pain in the butt."

  "I wouldn't know," Ryan said. "When did Mr. … Dad … come into all that money, anyway?"

  "Mister Dad?" Kelley teased.

  "Okay, give me a break. I haven't got used to it yet. I don't remember him being rich when I was little."

  "I guess it was after he and your mom split up. He designed some kind of refrigerator for batteries and sold the rights for, like, a couple of million dollars."

  "A refrigerator," Ryan said. "For batteries."

  "Yeah, like for little electric carts and stuff. I guess the batteries work better if you keep them cold."

  "Interesting." Ryan faked a yawn.

  Kelley snickered. "Okay, maybe it's not all that exciting, but there's no way I'll ever make that kind of money writing books." She mounted up; Ryan followed suit and they started back up the hill.

  "Well, I don't think you'll have to worry. I'm sure your dad will leave you plenty."

  Kelley gave him a startled look. "Allen! What a thing to say!"

  "Well, it's true."

  "All the same. I don't want to think about it." She urged her horse into a trot.

  Apparently, Tigger didn't like being left behind. She broke into her trademark bouncing gait so suddenly that Ryan was caught off guard. He toppled backward out of the saddle and hit the ground hard.

  Chapter 14

  When he came to, Kelley was kneeling over him, shaking him and sobbing, "Don't die! Please don't die! You just got here!"

  Ryan groaned and tried to sit up, but the pain that shot through his right arm brought him close to passing out again. He pried his eyes open enough to see that Kelley was smiling a relieved smile and wiping tears from her cheeks with the hem of her t-shirt. "Oh, Allen, thank God! You weren't moving at all! I thought you broke your neck! Are you okay?"

  "Not exactly. My arm hurts."

  "Oh, shoot. Is it broken?"

  "How do I know? Do I look like a doctor?" When he saw the hurt look on Kelley's face, he said, more kindly, "Sorry. I'm just feeling kind of stupid, here."

  "It was my fault. I shouldn't have picked up the pace so suddenly. Come on, I'll help you remount."

  "No way. I'll walk." He struggled to his feet and tucked the injured arm painfully against his chest.

  "Here." Kelley slipped the belt from her jeans, looped it around his neck, and buckled it under his wrist like a sling. "How's that?"

  "Better—if you're sure your jeans won't fall down."

  She blushed. "I'm pretty sure."

  They continued up the road on foot, with Kelley leading the horses. "Well," she said, "at least now you have an excuse not to play tennis."

  "Yeah. As Shakespeare said, there's some good in everything."

  "Did Shakespeare say that?"

  "You bet. 'And this our life exempt from public haunt / Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks / Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. / I would not change it.'"

  Kelley was staring at him, dumbfounded. "That's beautiful. What's it from?"

  "Umm … I'm not sure." Though he knew very well that it was from As You Like It, Allen might not. But who could say? Maybe Allen was a Shakespeare buff.

  Kelley shook her head. "You're amazing, you know that?"

  "Oh, yeah. Especially at horseback riding. Hey, I know what; why don't you let one of these guys stomp on your fingers? Then you won't have to play the piano."

  She giggled. "Was I really that bad?"

  "No, no," he lied. "Well, anyway, you play piano a lot better than I ride horses."

  Kelley's dad came hurrying down the driveway toward them. "What happened?"

  "I forgot to fasten my seat belt," said Ryan.

  Mr. Kurz was not amused. He scowled at Kelley. "You shouldn't have taken him riding. He said he didn't ride."

  Kelley looked dismayed and on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry, Daddy, I didn't think—"

  "Well, next time, think, okay?"

  "Hey," protested Ryan, "don't blame her. It was my idea to go, and it was my dumb fault that I fell off."

  Mr. Kurz pulled out a handkerchief and swiped at his sweating brow. "Well, maybe I overreacted. Sorry. It's just that, if anything happened to you, your mother would … well, anyway, there's nothing broken, is there?"

  "Just a sprain, I think. It hurts, though," he added quickly, in case Mr. Kurz had any doubts about his ability to play tennis.

  "I'll bet it does. Come on inside."

  "I'll take care of the horses," Kelley said.

  Mr. Kurz seemed not to hear. As he ushered Ryan into the house, he patted the boy's good shoulder and said slyly, "Listen, champ, you can't fool me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You did this on purpose, didn't you, to keep me from beating the pants off you at tennis."

  Ryan laughed weakly. "Yeah, that's it, all right."

  Mr. Kurz insisted that he lie down on the waterbed, and even clumsily arranged pillows behind Ryan's back. "Now you just lie there and take it easy, champ. I'll have Ollie take a look at that arm. She's better at that sort of thing than me. How about if I get you something to drink?"

  "Hey, I'm not paralyzed or anything."

  "I just don't want you moving around till we know whether or not that's broken. I'll bring you some juice."

  When Mr. Kurz was gone, Ryan sighed and sank back on the pillows. He let his gaze drift around the room, idly, at first, then more purposefully. During a performance, he always knew instinctively whenever a prop was out of place, or missing altogether. His instincts told him that something was awry in this room.

  It took him a minute to figure out exactly what it was. The suitcase. He'd left it sitting open on the armchair. Now it was gone. He rolled over, wincing at the pain in his arm and at the waterbed's sloshing, and peered under the bed. Not there.

  As he was climbing out to search for it, somebody rapped on the door; without waiting to be invited, Ollie swept inside. "Well, now," she said brightly, "what's this I hear about an accident?"

  "I sprained my arm, that's all. No big deal."

  She pulled the chair up next to the bed and sat gracefully, smoothing the light fabric of her dress over her pale knees. "Oh, one never knows about these things. You can't always tell from appearances, can you?" Despite her casual tone, Ryan had the feeling there was more than one level of meaning to her words. "Let's have a look, shall we? Is it this one?" She took hold of the injured arm and abruptly straightened it out. Ryan gave a yelp of pain. "Oh, I'm sorry," Ollie said, not very convincingly. "It really does hurt, doesn't it?"

  "Yes," Ryan replied between clenched teeth, "it really does."

  "Children do have a way of exaggerating sometimes, you know. Kelley used to complain of a stomach ache every day, hoping the school would send her home. I'm afraid you young people sometimes have trouble distinguishing between fantasy and reality, wouldn't you agree?" As Ollie spoke, she ran her cool, long-nailed fingers up and down his arm, probing and squeezing, almost as if she were deliberately torturing him. Ryan didn't reply; if he opened his mouth, who knew what might come out—a scream, for instance. He figured the question was a rhetorical one, anyway.

  "Well," Ollie said, finally, "nothing see
ms to be broken, but it is swollen. I'll have the cook bring you an ice pack. Try not to move it in the meantime." As she rose to leave, she added, "Oh, by the way, I took the liberty of putting your things away. Ken seems to think you'll be staying for a while. I hope you don't mind."

  "It's okay," Ryan murmured, clutching his arm protectively to his chest.

  The moment she was gone, he slid out of bed, shut the door, and pulled open the top drawer of the antique oak dresser. The few clothes he'd brought lay inside, neatly folded. Next to them were his personal articles, including the airline envelope with his return ticket inside and the boarding pass protruding from the outside pocket. He examined the boarding pass closely. Nothing incriminating there; Burton had enough sense to have the ticket made out to Allen Kurz. But just to be safe, he tucked the envelope out of sight underneath his shirts. He might be needing that return ticket sooner than expected.

  Now, what had she done with the suitcase? He found it on the top shelf of the walk-in closet and pulled it down, using his good arm. He tossed it on the bed and yanked open the lid. One of the rips in the lining looked larger than he remembered. He thrust his hand through the hole and groped around inside the lining with his fingers.

  The photos and the identification he had stashed there were gone.

  Chapter 15

  Ryan sank down on the bed, which heaved under his weight. He was pretty sure there had been no pictures of himself among the photos he'd stuffed inside the lining. But there had definitely been one of his mom—his real mom. His Social Insurance card and Actor's Equity card had been in there, too, and both had his name on them—his real name.

  Another knock on the door made Ryan practically jump into the suitcase. To his relief, it wasn't Ollie or even Mr. Kurz. "Hey," said Kelley, "why aren't you lying down?"

  "I … umm … I was just looking for some aspirin. I thought there was some in my suitcase."

  She set down a tray that held an ice pack and a tall glass of orange juice. "We have lots of aspirin. Also ibuprofen and Tylenol. Take your pick."

  "Aspirin's fine." He barely got settled on the bed before she was back with the pills. As he downed a couple, he said, "I feel like an invalid here. It's just a sprain."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  "I'm glad."

  "Glad to meet you, I'm sure."

  She laughed. "Mother said to put that ice pack on until the swelling goes down."

  "Uh-huh. Is that … is that all she said?"

  "That's about it. Why?"

  "No reason."

  "Dad said to tell you to take it easy. He was going to bring this stuff in, but he wasn't feeling too great. He gets these pains in his chest sometimes and has to lie down."

  So that was where Burton got the bad heart business. It was nice to know that there was a seed of truth buried underneath all that misinformation. "I hope it's nothing serious."

  "I don't think so. He's had it ever since I can remember. It happens when he gets stressed and stuff." She sat on the edge of the bed. "But I guess that's why I got upset when you said that—you know, about him leaving me his money. It made it sound like he might …"

  Ryan had never been much good at apologizing; it was easier when he imagined it was Allen saying it. "I'm sorry about that. And I'm sorry I got you in trouble with him."

  She shrugged. "No problem."

  He'd always been pretty bad at reading people's feelings, too, but he sensed that it was more of a problem than she let on. After all, she'd been the only child all these years, the star of the show, and now, suddenly, he'd burst on the scene, upstaging her and demanding all the attention.

  "Well, anyway, I am sorry." Apologies, it seemed, were like lines in a play; you got better at them with practice. "This has got to be hard on you, Kelley, me turning up like this."

  "No, really, it's okay," she said reassuringly, putting a hand on his arm.

  "Ow!"

  Kelley's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, shoot, I'm sorry!"

  "Just kidding," Ryan said. "It's the other arm."

  She nearly flung the ice pack at him. "You poop! Here, put this on, before I brain you with it." As Ryan placed the ice gingerly on his injured arm, Kelley picked aimlessly at a loose thread on the blanket. "I guess we won't be riding together anymore, huh?"

  "I don't know. Maybe when this gets better …"

  "By that time I'll be gone."

  "Gone? Oh, yeah. To school. I forgot." The truth was, the way things were going, he was likely to be leaving before she did. But, of course, he couldn't tell her the truth.

  "We can still take walks, though, can't we?"

  "Sure." He rubbed at his sore arm. "Just don't expect me to chew gum at the same time."

  When she was gone, he rose and carefully closed the door. Then he crept to the Starship phone and awkwardly punched in his home phone number with his left hand. This time his mother answered after a single ring. "Waite residence."

  "It's me again, Mom," he said softly.

  "Ryan? What are you doing, checking up on me?"

  "No. I … I just didn't want you to worry about me."

  "I hardly had time to. You just called last night." She paused and added uncertainly, "Didn't you?"

  "Yeah, I know. I guess I was just … feeling kind of homesick."

  Her voice softened a little. "Poor boy. I would have thought you'd be glad to get away from your old mother for a while."

  "Actually, I wish I was back there right now." Funny how unconvincing the truth could sound.

  "You're just saying that to make me feel good. Are you getting enough sleep? Are you eating right?"

  "Yes, Mom, I'm fine. Listen, have you heard from Burton?"

  "I told you yesterday, he called and said—"

  "Since then, I mean."

  "No. I've only had one call since then. Not counting yours, I mean. In fact, I just got off the phone about five minutes ago. It was kind of a strange conversation."

  "Oh?" Ryan wasn't quite listening. His thoughts were on Burton and how to get hold of him, and what he was going to do when he did.

  "It was a woman," his mother went on. "She asked if there was a Ryan Waite at this number. I thought it must be someone from a theater, so, of course, I told her you were on tour."

  Ryan groaned. "Great." If it was a theater, now they'd think he wasn't available. "I hope it wasn't somebody from Les Miz."

  "Well, I asked, but she wouldn't say. She wouldn't even leave a message. She asked where you were, and I said, Halifax, I thought. That's right, isn't it?"

  "Yeah," said Ryan, a little surprised that she remembered. "So, what else did this woman say?"

  "Well, she asked me what you looked like."

  "What I looked like?"

  "Uh-huh. I didn't know what to tell her. I said you were about average height and had blond hair and were very handsome."

  Ryan's stomach twisted slowly into a knot. It was possible that the call had been from a theater, and they'd been trying to determine whether he was right for a role. But it was just as possible that the mysterious caller was Ollie. She'd read his name on those id cards. There weren't that many Waites in the Toronto directory; it would be easy enough for her to call them, one by one, until she tracked him down.

  "Ryan? Are you still there?"

  "Yeah. Unfortunately."

  "Did I say something I shouldn't have? I assumed she wanted you for a part."

  "No, no. You … you did fine. I think I know who it was. I'll just—"

  There was a faint click on the line. For a moment, Ryan thought they'd been cut off. But there was no dial tone, just a sort of faint echo, a hollow sound, as if … as if somebody had picked up another extension.

  Hurriedly, he said, "Look, Mom, I've got to go. I'll call you again, okay?" He hoped she wouldn't say something incriminating, such as his name.

  All she said was, "Well, all right," and then he hung up.

  Ollie was onto him. He was almost sure of it. The
only question was: what was she going to do about it? Tell Mr. Kurz? Call the police? More to the point, what was he going to do about it? He couldn't just take off. To do that would be admitting his guilt—not to mention kissing the thirteen thousand dollars goodbye. Somehow, he had to hang in here and try to put Ollie's suspicions to rest, at least until he could get hold of Burton and see what the creep had to say.

  Ollie wasn't likely to have him arrested or anything. She had no real evidence except for the photos and cards from the suitcase, and she couldn't prove they were his. He could have gotten the suitcase second-hand, and the stuff had already been in there. Sure, that sounded reasonable.

  He'd been in tighter spots than this and faked his way out. Once, during a performance of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, the girl playing Susan skipped a whole page of dialogue and went into a panic. Ryan kept his cool and practically spoon-fed her the lines until she got back on track.

  There was one big difference, though. This was real life. It wasn't enough to improvise for a couple of minutes; you had to keep it up indefinitely. Acting was a lot easier. You had a script; you had a director. All he had was Burton, and Burton wasn't here.

  Then it occurred to Ryan that, if the man really was a private eye—okay, investigator—he must have an office someplace. And the office must have a phone. And if Burton ever expected to get any clients, the phone number had to be listed in the Toronto directory.

  Ryan picked up the Starship Enterprise left-handed, then let it drop. What if Ollie listened in again? He'd have to call sometime when she was gone, or asleep. First thing in the morning, maybe; Kelley said her mother never got up before nine.

  There was yet another rap on his door, and Mr. Kurz said softly, "Allen? You awake?"

  Ryan wanted to shout, Why can't you people leave me alone and let me think? Instead, he gritted his teeth and said, "Yes."

  "You feel up to some lunch, champ? I can bring you something."

  "I've just got a sprained arm, not a broken leg. I'll be right out. I just want to wash up."

  "Right. See you in a couple."

  Ryan shuffled wearily into the washroom, splashed water on his face, and rubbed it roughly dry with a towel. He stared into the mirror, took a deep breath, and forced his features into a half-hearted smile. "Okay, folks," he whispered. "It's showtime!"