Circles of Confusion (27 page)

Her watch said 6:45. It should take about five minutes to climb on her desk, retrieve the painting, breeze past Bruce and get back in her car. Then she would weigh her options. Chance going to the police? Try to contact the FBI or the Justice Department? Lay low until Dante arrived, maybe hole up in one of the anonymous hotels on Sandy that rented rooms by the hour and try to catch a few hours sleep? Her thoughts chased themselves. Every time Claire thought of Charlie she felt frantic with worry, but she didn't know how to find her. J. B. had promised to put the word out among his biker friends. He seemed to still have some connections, a fact that up

until today she would have said was a bad idea. She was still thinking when she rounded the last corner that lay between her and the Custom Plate Department.

Instead of empty shadowed cubicles, all the lights were on and the area was bustling with activity. A stocking-footed Lori stood on a chair, taping red and purple balloons to the edge of Claire's cube. Roland was trying to find the best place to display an outsize three- foot-tall vase of dark red roses with fat nodding heads. And Frank was already helping himself from a box of assorted Winchell's donuts.

Damn! Claire came to a stop. She had completely forgotten that today was her birthday. And about the tradition that the birthday boy or girl was supposed to arrive at work not one minute before their regular time, and then express amazement at the miraculous transformation of their cubicle.

Stepping lightly, she started to back up. Maybe she could escape without anyone noticing. She would regroup and come back again in the evening.

Just then Lori turned and saw her. She looked at her quizzically and then her eyes grew wide with recognition. "Claire, is that you? Like the hair!"

As fast as if something had crawled out of the cream filling, Frank snatched his hand back from the box of donuts and spun around. He let out a nervous bark of laughter. "Claire, is that really you?"

Roland's mouth had dropped open, but no sound came out. Instead, his gaze went from Claire's now-black curls to her Nike- clad feet, taking in everything in between. His thought processes were so transparent that she could tell that he both liked her outfit and thought it inappropriate. Knowing Roland, in a few minutes he would begin crafting a three-page memo on appropriate work attire, complete with minimum length requirements for skirts and a carefully worded stipulation requiring proper undergarments.

Lori jumped off the chair and slipped into her black pumps. "So what happened to you in New York? Send the girl off to the big city, and she comes back a new woman." She stepped forward to give Claire a hug. "Oh, and before I forget, happy birthday. At least your birthday gives us the chance to celebrate, since the state's too cheap to give us Columbus Day off."

Claire returned her squeeze, but her eyes were fastened on the square of ceiling tile that hid the painting. It was only ten feet away—but it might as well have been a mile. Just then a heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

"May I see your badge, miss?" The hand slid down to her upper arm and tightened.

Claire turned. The speaker was a security guard, a big man whose chest strained against his white polyester shirt.

"I don't have it with me today. But these are my co-workers"— she gestured at Lori, Frank and Roland, who all wore their ID badges on cords around their necks—"and they can verify that I work here."

"I'll vouch for her, Officer." Roland stepped forward. "This is Claire Montrose and she's one of my employees."

The guard shook his head. "Fm afraid we've had an alert in this area. And the rules clearly state that anyone lacking an ID badge must come down to the security office and fill out Form Number 115-96C."

Confronted with a greater force—required paperwork—Roland's half-hearted defense of Claire melted. "Maybe it would be best if you went with him, Claire. To minimize any delay of our little celebration."

"Oh, come on." Lori put one hand on her hip and appealed to the guard. "It's her birthday. Can't you just fill out Form Number Whatever by yourself and bring it back up here for her to sign? If you do that, I'll let you have your pick of donuts." She picked the box from Claire's desk. "Even a maple bar."

He was unmoved. "I'm afraid she's going to have to go with—"

Just then Claire came alive and tried to twist out of his grasp. "Let go of me!" Her co-workers stared, but Claire's brain had finally realized what her eyes had been trying to tell her. This man was no security guard.

What had given the game away were his shoes. They weren't the cheap all-black running shoes favored by the real security guards, but instead reddish-brown oxfords. Exposed by the cuffs of the man's too-short black polyester pants, they looked as big as boats. Suddenly, Claire had known where she had seen the shoes—and the man now wearing them—before. Only then he hadn't been a security guard in her office building. Instead, he had said his name was Karl Zehner. And the last time she had seen him, those shoes were planted on the floor of her great-aunt's trailer, while their owner asked if she had by any chance come across a painting among Cady's things.

Her eyes were level with his chest, and as she struggled in his grip, Claire saw that his name tag read Bruce. Claire spared a brief thought for the real Bruce. This man might be wearing his uniform, but she hoped Bruce hadn't had to die to give it up.

Her struggles had had no effect. Still holding her arm, Karl started to march her down the hall that led to the elevator. "If you're not careful, miss, you're going to have to fill out another form for resisting lawful detainment."

"I know who you are! Let go of me!" Karl half dragged her to the elevator. She turned to appeal to her co-workers. "Help me! This guy's a fake! He's trying to steal something from me!"

Frank looked at Roland and Claire watched as he mouthed the word "Drugs!" Roland pursed his lips and nodded, as if he had been handed the key to both her new downmarket appearance and her recently altered behavior. Only Lori, standing with her hands balled at her sides, seemed at a loss for what to do.

"Lori! Please!" Claire called back over her shoulder. Karl had marched her to the elevator doors. For a moment she pretended to match him step for step, until he took one step forward and she deliberately took one step back, donkey-kicking her other foot behind her as hard as she could. It only reached his shin, and Karl didn't even grunt when her foot connected.

"Wait a minute!" Lori ran in front of them. "If Claire says you're not really a guard here, I believe her. Give me some proof, buddy."

Just then the elevator doors opened, revealing Ed, the nominal head of their license plate kingdom. He had a black briefcase in one hand and a copy of the Oregonian under his arm. He appraised Claire and her captor with narrowed, bloodshot eyes. "Is that you under that wig, Montrose? You can run, but you can't hide. Good work, Officer." He held the elevator open as Karl began to force Claire inside.

"What? What are you talking about?" Lori demanded. Frank and Roland hung back.

"This woman's a wanted fugitive. Here, see for yourself." Ed thrust the paper into Lori's hand. Frank and Roland crowded around. Claire managed to catch a glimpse of the headline before Karl pulled her into the elevator and hit the Close Door button. Woman Sought for Questioning in Neighbor's Death, Roommate's Disappearance.

"I am warning you. If you do not keep quiet, I am going to hurt you." Karl jabbed the button marked B as soon as the elevator doors closed. He was using a voice Claire hadn't heard before, not the prissy inflection of Aunt Cady's supposed friend or the officious intonation of a security guard, but something rougher and angrier. Maybe she had hurt him when she kicked him. She certainly hoped so.

"Who are you working with?" Claire demanded. "Paul? Dante?

Troy?" Karl held her in front of him, so she couldn't see if his face changed, if any of the names resonated. "Do you know where Charlie is?" He kept silent.

In only a few seconds the doors would open and he would take her someplace where no one could hear her scream. Did Karl have any weapon beyond his brute strength? At least she knew that poor Bruce's uniform didn't also come with a gun.

"Okay," Karl said into her ear, "we are going to walk out of this building, and we are not going to make a fuss." He slid his hand down to her wrist and pulled it up behind her back until she grunted. "Try to get away and I will break your arm. Minimum."

The elevator doors opened to reveal a crowd of workers clutching nylon lunch sacks, athletic bags, briefcases and purses. Claire knew a few of them by sight, but none by name. And none of them seemed to recognize her, even though several held copies of the Oregonian.

Karl gave Claire a little push and she began to walk. He kept his body so close to her that they could be mistaken for boyfriend and girlfriend, wrapped in each other's arms. In twenty more steps she would be in the underground garage, and once Karl had her in his car, chances were good she would never be seen again. After he had forced her to tell him where the painting was, he would probably kill her. She imagined a new Oregonian headline: Body Found in Shallow Mountain Grave.

Her thoughts spun as they passed through the crowd and made their way down the low-ceilinged hallway that led to the parking garage. The door ahead of them opened to admit another state employee. He held a ubiquitous Starbucks coffee cup, wrapped in a napkin to shield him from the heat. Before she had even consciously decided what to do, Claire's free hand was reaching out. With a flick of her thumb, she popped off the white plastic lid, then threw the contents over her shoulder.

Karl bellowed in her ear and let go of her hand. Claire whirled and pushed her fists into the soft dough of his belly. Already off- balance, his red, scalded face dripping coffee, Karl went down on his butt. His head hit the wall with a thunk. Claire burst past the startled worker and caught the door just before it closed.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Claire ran for her life. Her legs had not yet recovered from her run down Barbur Boulevard, and when she tried to kick them out it was like ordering a paralyzed man to walk. She half lurched, half ran through the garage, up the stained concrete stairs, and out onto the street, her left Achilles tendon grating at every step.

Claire ran to the B-210, jumped inside, and reached down to pull the key from her jeans pocket. Something was already clutched in her fingers, a souvenir of her struggle with Karl. It was a state-issued ID card, with the word Security in bold black letters on one side. And a picture of Bruce—the real Bruce—on the other.

MSTBF8

The Lord Is My Shepherd Assisted Living Facility said the flaking letters painted on the side of a concrete building that possessed all the charm of a warehouse. Since it was located in the industrial area of northwest Portland, it probably had been a warehouse.

Claire checked the printout again. After she had slipped the painting in its hiding place the night before, she had had just enough time to look up Al Patten—Aunt Cady's old hometown pal—on the state's computer. It had been a long shot, but it had paid off when the listing showed that he had still been around a few years before. "License revoked 5/19/93," it said. And after a c/o it gave the address she now stood in front of.

After she pushed the door open, she found herself in a small reception area bracketed by swinging doors. The sharp smell of disinfectant battled with the faint tang of urine. In front of her was a battered wooden desk, unoccupied, topped with an old typewriter. Mounted on the wall above it was a large white sign. "You are at The Lord Is My Shepherd Assisted Living Facility," it said at the top. The next line read, "The season is fall," with the word fall Velcroed into place. "The weather outside is cool. Today is Saturday.” Since it was really Monday, Claire wondered how long it had been since anyone had paid attention to what the sign said. And did it really matter? If the people who lived here were so out of it that they didn't know what season it was, would reading it have any meaning for them?

"Hello?" There was no answer, and no one was visible through either of the swinging doors. Choosing at random, she pushed open the door on the left. An old woman sat slumped over in a wheelchair in the middle of the hallway, which was lined with half-closed doors. Each door was decorated with a large wooden cross, and on the cross a ceramic Jesus writhed in what seemed to Claire a little too clearly pictured agony. In the middle of the corridor lay a cart stacked with breakfast trays, and at the end of the hall was another sign: No Sinner Music May Be Played on Premises. Despite the wheelchair, the woman didn't seem to be paralyzed, since the footrest flaps were turned up and she was slowly shuffling forward.

"Excuse me, do you know where—" Claire began, but stopped when the old woman looked up. Caught in a net of wrinkles, her eyes were wide and wild. Claire looked away.

Wham! The old woman rolled her wheelchair over Claire's left foot and banged painfully into her shins.

"Hey! Be careful!" Claire said, taking a step back.

The old woman looked up at her, and something seemed to stir in her faded eyes. She took her hands from her lap, put them on the wheels and rolled over Claire's foot again.

"Stop that!" Claire took two quick steps around the woman's chair, so that she was now directly behind it.