"Al Patten?" Claire asked him, fearing he wasn't. The rocking man didn't pause, but the dapper man leaned down and began to pull a suitcase from under the bed.
"Am I getting out today?" His muffled voice was unexpectedly low and melodious, like an old-time radio announcer.
Claire felt a stab of guilt. "No, Mr. Patten, sorry, not today. I've brought you some breakfast, though."
With a sigh, the old man pushed his suitcase back under the bed. He began to pat his jacket pockets, then reached for a wallet that wasn't there. "Would you mind spotting me, darling? I seem to have misplaced my wallet."
Claire realized he now thought she was some sort of waitress. "That's okay. I've got it covered." She sat the tray on the table between the bed and the chair, and then took a seat on the edge of the bed. Only then did the old man straighten up and look her full in the face. He sagged back in his chair with a little cry.
"Cady! What are you doing in this place?" With a palsied hand, he reached out to touch one of the wisps of dark hair that framed Claire's face. "Why have you changed your hair?"
Claire remembered standing in front of the bathroom mirror in her aunt's trailer, marking the similarities between her face and her aunt's fifty-year-old photo. What would he tell her if he thought she was Cady? "Do you like it this way?"
"Oh, sure, honey, sure. You can fix your hair any way you want, because you'll always look good to me." He looked at the table and gave a little grunt of surprise. "Oh, look, breakfast." He reached for a glass of what looked like Tang and took a sip. A dreamy smile crossed his face. "Where have you been keeping yourself? I haven't seen you for.. * AI looked away and then back with a mixture of confusion and discomfort. It was clearly an effort for him to stay fixed in one time, not go slipping backward or forward. "For ages," he finished. "And when's Rudy gonna come by? You tell him I have a little deal I need to talk to him about."
A deal. That seemed to be in keeping with the Al Patten Aunt Cady had written about fifty years before. "Actually, that's why I came by to see you. I need to ask you something. Do you remember that little painting Rudy gave me—"
"That girl with a letter? She's got those big blue eyes like yours?" Al laughed. "Rudy said that would get you talking to him again."
So that was it. Rudy must have given the painting to Aunt Cady to persuade her to come back to him. A darker thought occurred to Claire. Or maybe Rudy had given Aunt Cady the painting as a bribe, to make it harder for her to turn him in for looting from the storeroom he was supposed to be guarding.
"So where did Rudy get it from? Did it come from—"
A plaintive wail from across the hall interrupted her. "My shoes! Where are my shoes! Bring me my shoes!"
Claire wondered if something should be done, but Al's roommate never stopped his rocking and Al himself was tucking a napkin under his collar without paying the least bit of attention.
She finished her sentence. "Did it come from the train that had all of Goring's stuff?"
He shook his head, looking confused and upset. Was it that he didn't know the answer or that he didn't want to talk? Then his face cleared. From under overgrown eyebrows he gave her a sly look. "Is there any way you can get me out of here, Cady? I'll make it worth your while."
"Where are we?"
For an answer, he rolled his eyes and blew air through pursed lips. "The lockup, of course. I don't remember exactly what I did, though. Was it a 'drunk and disorderly' again?"
Claire hesitated and then offered him a half-smile, unwilling to give him either a lie or the truth. "I want to ask you again about that painting. Where did it come from?"
"All I know is that it was in the warehouse." Al was now more interested in his oatmeal than stolen masterpieces. "Things are always going in and"—he lowered his voice to a stage whisper— "coming out. Every Nazi has a thing or two that he took from the Jews and now he's either turning it in or hiding it in his cellar. They got it from someone else, and now we take it from them. What's that old Latin saying?"
'"Veni, vidi, vici'?" Claire asked, resigned to the fact that she might never know what happened. '"I came, I saw, I conquered'?"
"You were always better in school than me, but that isn't it. All I remember is the English. 'To the victor goes the spoils."'
Chapter 30Claire found the I-Spy Shoppe in a Barbur Boulevard strip mall, sandwiched between a Thai restaurant and a tanning salon. J. B. has said he could get her a gun if she wanted, but she had declined the offer. But now she was feeling the need for some kind of protection. As she got out of the car and slipped on her backpack, she could still feel Al Patten's soft goodbye kiss on her cheek. She had promised to tell Rudy to come by. For the first time, she wondered what had happened to Aunt Cady's former lover. Was he dead now? In a nursing home like his old Army buddy? Living in a trailer in a remote area, just him and his pit bulls and his Nazi memorabilia?
A bell tinkled above her head when she pushed open the door to I-Spy. From behind the cash register, a brush-cut clerk glanced up at her and then went back to reading his magazine. The one-roomed store, with its blank cream-colored walls and industrial gray carpeting, had an air of impermanence about it, as if the next day it might become a quick copy shop or an Iranian deli. The only fixtures, in addition to the cash register, were a half-dozen glass display cases scattered around the room.
The store was like an old-fashioned magic shop that had been infected with a 1990s brand of technology-flavored paranoia. At first Claire's hopes slid as she examined the case nearest the door, which held a variety of items designed to conceal valuables. A fake rock. A false-bottomed planter. A completely unconvincing cement- colored dog turd that looked more like a gag gift. There were safes made from hollowed-out books, car batteries and a giant can of Fritos. Everything was slightly off and thus unconvincing. Like how often did you see a can of Fritos? The stuff seemed designed more to appeal to a nine-year-old boy than to deter thieves.
She spun the revolving display filled with books on lock-picking, disguises and secret codes, all with forty-year-old clip art on the covers. Next to the books was a pyramid display for the Bionic Ear, "the sound collector with a thousand uses." The package showed an Aryan-looking young man, clad in camouflage, his brow furrowed in exaggerated concentration as he listened to a pair of earmuff-like receivers.
Some of I-Spy's wares seemed to have been transported directly from the back of an old comic book. There were invisible inks and a two-headed nickel with the legend Win Every Toss!
Claire slipped on a pair of rearview sunglasses. The black plastic frames stuck out three inches on either side of her head, and were about as unobtrusive as a pair of 3-D glasses. The insides of the lenses were coated, offering a faint, oily reflection of the store behind her. She put them back on the display.
At she moved to the back of the store, the contents of the cases became sleeker and more expensive, designed to appeal to men with James Bond fantasies. At least Claire hoped they were fantasies. There were car bomb detectors, night-vision goggles, vehicle trackers, and a briefcase that promised to greet any unauthorized user with 10,000 volts. Telephone recording devices were displayed side by side with scramblers that disrupted telephone recording devices.
Claire ended her circuit of the room back at the register. "Excuse me. I have a problem and was wondering if you could give me some advice."
The clerk looked up from a magazine ad touting the benefits of bulletproofing your car. "Lady, maybe you should be telling your problems to a lawyer instead of to me." His affectation of world- weariness was at odds with his inability to grow a convincing goatee.
Claire wasn't sure where to begin. "This isn't exactly a lawyer- type problem."
He nodded knowingly. "I hear that all the time." He had a narrow, rabbity face. She had the feeling he didn't have many opportunities to talk to women.
"I'm being followed, and I need some kind of, I guess you'd call it a personal protection device."
"Have you thought
about going to the police?"
"Well," Claire began. "There may be a problem with that."
He surprised her by slapping the magazine down on the counter. "Of course there's a problem with that! A piece of toilet paper will do you more good than one of those worthless restraining orders. I should know. I get the guys they are taken out against all the time in here, looking for stuff to get back at their ex-wives. The only one you can rely on is yourself. You have to be ready to use anything in your environment."
The clerk crouched in a way that was presumably supposed to represent catlike readiness, but the position only emphasized his incipient potbelly. "If you think you're being followed, the first step is to try to keep cars, trees, any kind of a barrier between you. Don't be afraid to make a scene. Set off an emergency alarm, honk a car horn, even throw a rock through a window. Do what you have to do to attract attention. Your trained assassin doesn't want witnesses."
He seemed to have forgotten that she was presumably the victim of a jealous ex-husband. "I would highly recommend the rearview sunglasses. I saw you considering them. At a minimum, learn to use the reflective surfaces around you to see what's behind you. Look in car and shop windows when you're walking. Check the plastic strip at ATM machines."
He straightened up, accompanied by an audible pop from his knees. "And remember that in a pinch, anything can be a weapon. A handful of dirt. A roll of quarters held in your fist." He made a "pow!" sound as he threw a shadow punch, then fished the keys from his pocket. "Slip your keys between your fingers, and use them to rake your assailant's eyes." He clawed the air and Claire took a step back. Then the salesman's instinct returned. "Or if you'd like to try our weighted gloves, you'll find they're very reasonably priced. And there's something else I'd like to show you."
He used one of his keys to open a case, then pulled something from it with a flourish, as if performing a magic trick. It looked like a cross between a beeper and an electric razor—small, black, curved to fit the hand. "How about a stun gun?" he asked as he pressed a button. Electricity arced between two wires, crackling and sparking. N4CR
From behind the brushy green curtain of her neighbor's overgrown arborvitae, Claire had spent the last ten minutes casing her own house. Yellow crime scene tape was crisscrossed across the door, and her Mazda still sat in the driveway. At this time of day, the neighborhood was deserted, people swallowed up by the new American reality that demanded every able-bodied adult hold down a full-time job in order to sustain a reasonable standard of living. Mothers worked, teenagers worked, and even the elderly stood behind McDonald's counters in their orthopedic shoes.
One quick burst across the street, down the driveway and through the gated fence, and then Claire was in the shelter of the backyard, sucking lungfuls of air. The last time she had run for pleasure had been her final morning in New York, just a little more than a day ago, although it seemed more like a decade. She ran her fingers under the edge of the deck until she found the nail that held the key to the back door. Even with her belief in the power of an imaginary dog to guard her house, Charlie would have laughed at the idea of using a fake turd to hide her key.
The reality of what had been done to the house, of the violation of her sanctuary, engulfed Claire when she opened the door. Everything was in the same sorry mess it had been when she ran from it. Had that only been last night? Her fingers itched to make just one thing right, to get out a broom or set a chair back in place. Instead she made her way to the kitchen with its floor covered in spilled flour.
She knelt down and tried to read the scuff marks. She thought of ancient hunters in primeval forests who could read the story told by every bent twig. It wasn't as easy for her, especially since a half- dozen people must have walked through this space since she had been here last. But finally, Claire found what she had half remembered from the night before. Next to the refrigerator was a huge footprint, half again as big as any of the other tracks.
And Claire could only think of one man mixed up in this affair who had such huge feet. Karl Zehner. So Karl had been here then, here before Claire came back from New York. He had to have something to do with Charlie's disappearance. Had he stashed her someplace as a bargaining chip? Had he killed her when he realized she didn't know where the painting was? Claire thought about Charlie, tried to imagine her life snuffed out, and failed. Wouldn't she know if this woman who had been like a second mother to her was dead?
Before deciding it was safe to leave, Claire spent a long time peering out each window. No cars came down the street and the neighbors' houses were still and presumably empty. Still, she couldn't shake the idea that someone was observing her. She looked at her watch. In another ninety minutes, she was scheduled to meet Dante. She wanted to arrive at their meeting place ahead of time. She would watch, wait and make sure he was alone and she wasn't followed. And she would decide whether she should try to trust him. After a deep breath, she slipped out the side door.
A white van squealed into the driveway. Doors were flung open and a man and woman leaped out and began to run toward her. Claire had never seen either one of them before. No matter. She knew what they were after. Acquiring what might be a twenty- million-dollar painting was a sure way to make a lot of people decide they needed to separate you from it.
Something squarish, black and mechanical was balanced on the man's shoulder. My God! Claire thought wildly. A rocket launcher? The woman clutched a black wand, and now she pointed it directly at Claire.
Claire grabbed the stunner from her jacket pocket. The clerk's instructions from an hour before flashed through her brain.
"Roll tape, Brad!" barked the woman. Even without heels she would have been taller than Claire, but in her cream-colored pumps and matching suit she was terrifying and beautiful, an Amazon warrior queen. Claire didn't wait to figure out what she meant, just ran forward to meet her. Remembering the I-Spy clerk's instructions, she aimed for a spot just above the tan and freckled cleavage.
It was as if the woman had run full-tilt into an invisible wall. She fell backward so hard that gravel sprayed from the impact. One of her shoes flew past Claire. The woman's hands rose to clutch her chest, tears washing across her face. Her glossy hps opened and closed, emitting no sound.
Remembering her other would-be assailant, Claire went into a crouch and pivoted to wave the stun gun menacingly at Brad. But he had eyes only for the stunned woman lying on the ground. She had progressed to making a faint mewling sound. He threw his giant weapon down on the driveway, then knelt next to his fallen comrade, pressing his fingers to the tops of her heaving breasts as he searched for the wound.
"What did you do to her? What did you do?" He leaned forward, shouting. "Liz, can you hear me? Liz? We're going to get you to a doctor right away."
Liz's lips moved, and they both leaned forward to hear. Although the salesman at I-Spy had assured her that the stun gun would leave no lasting damage, Claire was beginning to worry.
The woman struggled to form the words. "Get the shot."
The shot! Claire grabbed Brad's weapon before he could. As her fingers fastened on the handle, she finally recognized it for what it was. Not some strange futuristic weapon, but a videocam.
Understanding opened in her like a ragged seam. Liz must have thrust a microphone toward her, not a weapon. Which meant that these two were—"You're TV reporters?" XQQSME
Chapter 31"Just let me get a peek at the little one." The old woman tried again to elbow her aside, but Claire clutched the handle of the baby stroller even tighter. Under the shelter of a multicolored canopy, the blanket-wrapped bundle didn't stir. Which wasn't surprising. The whole setup—stroller, blanket, and Baby Newborn—had been purchased twenty minutes before at Toys "R" Us.
Claire tried to mimic the no-nonsense tones of an experienced mother. "I'm sorry, but if Jessica wakes up, I won't be able to get her back down again."
"And when are you due to give her a brother or sister, dear?"
Too late, Claire tri
ed to step back, but the liver-spotted hand landed on the high arc of her belly.
The old woman, who had already confided in Claire that she had had "seven of my own," clearly knew that something was amiss. Under the lip of her clear plastic rain bonnet (which was tied firmly over a wig in a particularly unconvincing shade of tan), her eyes widened. Her mouth opened and then closed again. Finally, she turned on her heel and walked away, muttering and shaking her head.
With a sigh, Claire sat down on the bench outside Meier & Frank.
It offered a clear view of the Lloyd Center Mall skating rink, one floor below. In the basket of the stroller lay her backpack and Susie's old clothes.
Her new belly, encased in a virginal-looking pink-and-white- flowered maternity top, protruded into her peripheral vision, startling Claire for a moment. It had taken a bit of fast talking to persuade the clerk at Motherhood to allow her to purchase not only a maternity outfit but also the pregnancy-shaped pillow that hung from a hook in the dressing room. It had probably rested on a hundred tummies before Claire's, while newly pregnant women imagined how they would look with a cute little strap-on belly— forgetting to factor in the swollen feet, varicose veins and stretch marks. Claire had told the spiky-haired clerk that she wanted to scare an old boyfriend, and the girl had allowed herself a small smile before agreeing.
BBNBRD
Chapter 32Her new disguise had been prompted by the fact that too many people knew what she looked like now, with dark hair and Susie's clothes. Her co-workers, Karl, KMDR-TV's Liz and Brad—and potentially all of Portland, if Liz and Brad broke their promise and aired Claire's reluctant interview tonight instead of three days from now.
First they had tried to lure her by promising to tell her side of the story. When that didn't work, they had threatened to broadcast footage of her lunging at Liz with the stun gun. For emphasis, Liz had rubbed at the faint red mark on her chest, plaintively asking Brad if it would show on camera. At Claire's insistence the negotiations had taken place inside the van, which Brad had driven several miles from Claire's house.