Square in the Face (Claire Montrose Series) (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

Claire stopped her Mazda in front of the ten-foot-high metal gate that separated the Prices from the hoi polloi. It was topped with sharp spikes that looked more practical than decorative. The estate was hidden behind high stone walls, and Claire had seen the glitter of broken glass along the top of the wall as she crested Parrot Road. Clearly, the Prices did not welcome uninvited guests. Getting out of her car, Claire gave a tentative push to the heavy metal gate, which was locked. There was a whirring sound and she looked up into the lens of a black surveillance camera set high on the gate post. Then she saw the plain white buzzer set into the wall just above a small metal grille.

A crackle, and then a man’s voice issued from the tiny speaker. “Yes?”

“This is Claire Montrose. I’m here to see Ms. Price.”

No answer, but there was the sound of a lock clicking. The gates began to swing open toward the road -- and her idling car. Claire hurriedly jumped behind the wheel and backed up, then drove forward through the gates. In her rearview mirror, she saw them silently closed behind her.

The narrow drive wound through a stretch of century-old cedar and fir. She rounded a curve and the woods gave way to an open meadow that sloped gently down to the calm expanse of the Tualatin River. The house lay cradled in a bend. Although house wasn’t the right word, since Claire guessed it encompassed at least five thousand square feet. A sleek two-story contemporary made of sandstone and granite, it mimicked the undulating shape of the river. Floor-to-ceiling windows and a series of balconies ensured that its owners would have every chance to enjoy the babble of the water and the crisp profiles of the mountains.

When the drive reached the house it split in two - one portion curling in front of the main door, the other leading behind the house to a long garage. Claire counted bays for seven cars. She slowed, uncertain of where to go next.

And there she was, Amanda Price, recognizable even at a distance, standing on the cedar deck that ran the length of the house. Claire parked the car at the edge of the drive, then walked over to her, hand outstretched. The actress wore black leggings and an oversized steel-gray velvet shirt, and she behaved as if she didn’t see Claire’s hand at all. She simply turned and went inside.

Together, they walked rapidly down a wide hallway. They passed ranks of closed doors on either side, then a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a five-star restaurant, with oversized brushed aluminum appliances. Over the eight-burner stove, a long line of graduated copper pans dangled. Claire noted that there was nothing out of place, nothing left on the counter, but that was all she had time to think because by then Amanda was striding past an open atrium. Two stories overhead, the ceiling sparkled. It was made of tiny panes of glass that shone in the morning sun like facets on a diamond. Facing each other across the great open space were two ten-foot-square abstract paintings, slashes and drips of color. Claire hadn’t seen anything like them outside of the Museum of Modern Art.

At the end of the hall, Amanda opened the door to a room where the scale was a little more human. Still silent, she settled down onto the leather cushions of a mission-style couch. She kicked off her silver linen mules and tucked her feet under her long legs. Claire sat down on the chair opposite, her back to the door. Faced with Amanda’s velvet-framed cleavage and carefully made-up face, Claire felt underdressed and unisex in her denim shirt, khakis and single swipe of mascara.

“So, how much do you want?” Amanda said without preamble.

Claire had the strangest feeling, as if she had seen this scene before. But of course she had. Amanda Price had made her living portraying women who asked for the truth without blinking.

Shaking her head, Claire said, “I told you on the phone that this isn’t about money. What it is about is saving a child’s life. I’m looking for a girl who was adopted through the Bradford clinic in August of 1988 - and I have reason to believe that that girl is your daughter.”

Amanda’s low voice was steely. “Emily is
our
daughter.”

Claire chose her next words carefully. “Yes, she’s your daughter now. I’m not arguing that. But you and I both know that she didn’t come from your body. Your daughter was born at the Bradford Clinic around the same time that my friend had
her
baby at the Bradford Clinic. Now my friend’s youngest son is dying from leukemia. Zach’s only hope is a bone marrow transplant. There are no matches on any bone marrow registry in the world. If Emily is my friend’s biological child, then there’s a good chance she might be a match. My friend’s not asking for the girl back. She just wants a chance to save her son’s life. Zach is only three years old. Think of your daughter when she was three. If she were dying, wouldn’t you do anything you could to save her? A bone marrow donation would be nearly painless for your daughter - but it could save Zach’s life.”

Amanda shrugged her shoulders. “That’s a sad story - if it’s true. But our daughter is our child. No one else’s.”

“I have the record from the Bradford Clinic with your name on it.” Claire decided it was politic not to mention that she actually had four records, not just the Prices’. “I understand why you would want to keep your adoption private. However, if you refuse to help me, I could go to the media.”

“How do I know you haven’t already? How do I know you don’t have a little camera hidden in all that hair of yours?”

“But that wouldn’t serve any purpose. I’ve kept this completely confidential,” Claire said, lying only a little. After all, the people she had told had been sworn to secrecy. She just hoped Dr. Gregory would keep his word. “This is just between you and me.”

The deep, nearly robotic voice came from behind Claire. “That’s good. Because that’s how it’s going to stay.”

Startled, Claire reared back her head. Kurt Price stood behind her, dressed all in black - black jeans, black cowboy boots and a black T-shirt. Even the huge gun he held was black. Black fur poked above the neck of his T-shirt, which was so tight that the hills and valleys of his muscles stood out like a relief map. The actor had what serious bodybuilders called a “six-pack,” not a reference to a beer-fed spare tire, but instead muscles so defined that they cut the abdomen into six rectangles.

A snort from the other side of the room. Amanda threw up her hands in a deliberately artificial gesture. “Acting!” she mocked in a dramatic tone, imitating a character who had been a popular fixture on Saturday Night Live a decade ago.

“Amanda!” Kurt snarled, but his wife just leaned back and crossed her arms. Her exquisitely expressive face did the talking for her, as she regarded her husband with mingled annoyance and boredom. But, Claire noted, there wasn’t even a trace of fear, even thought the gun he held seemed pointed someplace midway between he and Amanda.

Claire wished she felt as unflappable. “I don’t want to violate your privacy,” she stammered while slowly getting to her feet, an awkward movement as she was holding her hands in the air. She figured once she was standing, she could keep the gun in her line of sight. She would also be able to move more quickly if she needed to. If only Kurt weren’t standing between her and the door to the hall. And if only there weren’t two hundred feet of hall separating her from the front door. Offering nothing but a straight shot, should Kurt be so inclined.

Once she stood up, Claire was surprised to find that she was taller than Kurt. As if she were reading Claire’s mind, Amanda said, “Boxes,” in a bored tone. “They have him stand on boxes if there’s a close-up with another character. For the action shots he frequently wears lifts.”

Kurt stuck out his chest. “I’m taller than Sly Stallone,” he retorted. “Taller than Mister Tom Cruise.” His voice was changing, the vowels drawn out, the tone a little higher, less his trademark and often imitated clipped growl. There was something about his inflection that sounded familiar.

“And he’s so muscle-bound you could pin him in a fight.” Claire realized Amanda’s comment wasn’t addressed to Kurt, but her. “He has started
dying
his chest hair, did you know that?”

Before Amanda had begun taunting him, Kurt’s gun had been aimed someplace in the direction of the fireplace, but now he pointed it squarely at Claire’s chest. Claire hoped he wasn’t going to use her dead body as proof of his manliness. “‘Kay, Amanda, that’s enough.”

The last time Claire had heard anyone say “‘Kay” in just that way, he had been wearing black gloves and a ski mask. “So you’re the one who threatened me yesterday when I was running,” she said. “But how did you figure out who I was?”

Kurt sneered. “Caller ID and a reverse directory. You’re not much of a sleuth, are you, calling from your own home? I erased your first message before Amanda ever had a chance to hear it. You should have listened to me when I told you to stop asking questions. Now you’ve forced me to deal with you.”

“Kurt!” Amanda’s voice rapped out. “Get a grip! You’re not in one of your own movies. This is not going to solve anything.”

But the gun didn’t move from where it was now aimed at Claire’s chest. Time seemed to slow down. Were his fingers beginning to tighten?

Suddenly there was the sound of running feet in the hall. A girl bounced into the room. She was dressed in jeans, a heavy gray sweatshirt and mud-spattered knee high boots. In one quick motion, Kurt tucked the gun behind his back and into the waistband of his jeans. He managed to sidestep a hug.

“Mommy, Daddy! I did it! I jumped the high fence today! Dancer and me, we just sailed over it!” The girl was fine-boned, with huge dark eyes. An excited flush colored her creamy skin. Her hair was very dark, nearly as black as her riding helmet. Her muddy boots were leaving smears on the polished oak floor, but neither parent seemed to mind as they both focused on her. Despite their acerbic bickering, it was clear that Kurt and Amanda had something in common. They both loved the girl.

Claire stared at her, remembering Lori’s words.
It’s not too hard to figure out what she might look like. ... Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin
. Were those almond-shaped eyes familiar? The proud way she held her head - was it Claire’s imagination that let her see an echo of Havi in the girl?

Emily noticed Claire watching her, and she drew into herself a little. “I’m sorry to interrupt when you have company.” She dropped her gaze and noticed the mess she had made of the floor. “I’ll go get some paper towels.”

“Just leave it, Emily,” Amanda said. “I’ll get Alice to clean up later.”

The door was still closing behind the girl when Claire snatched the gun from Karl’s waistband. Raising it, she pointed it at Kurt. For all its size, it felt oddly light in her hands. But instead of being afraid, Kurt shrugged and turned away to look the window.

“It’s a prop, dear,” Amanda said. “I don’t know what he was planning to do with it. Probably
he
doesn’t even know.”

Claire thought she saw Kurt shrug, but she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t quite ready to believe the actress, not yet, but she did let her hand fall to her side.
 
“I don’t understand why he would point a gun - real or not - at me. I’m not asking for much. My friend truly doesn’t want to take Emily from you. We just want to be able to test a tiny sample of her blood.”

“Do you want the truth?”

“Of course I do.” Claire was suddenly afraid of the answer. Was there some chance that the baby hadn’t come from the Bradford clinic at all, but was Amanda’s pregnancy by another man? That could account for Kurt’s crazy behavior.

“This is Kurt’s secret, not mine, so if I tell you, it can’t go beyond this room. No one else can know. You have to promise me.”

Claire gave a nod. “I promise.”

Amanda let out a long sigh. “It’s his image that Kurt’s defending, not Emily. That’s why he’s always insisted on secrecy about her adoption. He doesn’t want anyone to know why we had to adopt. He thinks his fans wouldn’t accept it. I’ve tried telling him he could be a role model, a spokesperson, maybe even found a non-profit research organization.” Claire had the impression that Kurt was listening intently. “I keep telling him he needs to branch out a little. Show his fans he can be human.”

Still feeling in the dark, Claire hazarded a guess. “He’s, um, sterile?”