The Perfect Fake

by Barbara Parker

  “That’s true, I guess, but still—”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I have the directions and you don’t.”

  Chapter 33

  The warehouses and industrial buildings and cheap apartment blocks outside Milan slid away as Allison headed west on the autostrada that would take

  them to the mountains. Tom sat in the passenger seat reading the instructions for the color monitor on the console, which featured a GPS, along with the sound system and temperature controls. The car was a sleek silver Alfa Romeo with a 3.2-liter engine and V-shaped air intake. It could take a Fiat between its teeth and shake it. Allison wanted the Alfa for the four-wheel drive, in case they ran into some snow. Tom told her he wouldn’t mind snow; he hadn’t seen any since he’d left New York.

  The GPS indicated that the distance to Champorcher was 140 kilometers. Past Novara, they would take the A-5, which came up from Turin and went through the province of Valle d’Aosta to Chamonix on the French side of Mont Blanc—Monte Bianco on the Italian side. Backing up, Tom followed a smaller road to Champorcher on the southern slopes of the Alps.

  Allison’s father had faxed the directions to their hotel this morning. The Barlowes had left for Milan last night. Allison said she didn’t know if Leo Zurin had been told that she and Tom were coming, too. She had tried to get Stuart on her cell phone, but he hadn’t answered. The mountains could be blocking the signal, she said.

  Gradually the landscape became hilly, and snow lay in patches on the north sides of farmhouses and in gullies and among the trees at the edges of fields. Allison pointed, and Tom saw the silhouette of a crenellated castle tower before the road turned and put it out of view. The grade of the highway became steeper. Allison accelerated around a tanker truck and blew past a Mercedes with a Swiss license plate.

  By tapping the monitor screen Tom could turn on the radio and adjust the volume. He scrolled through the stations and heard a slow ballad in French and rock and roll in German. An Italian announcer said, “Sono le undici e un quarto. Adesso la nuova in rap Americana—”

  “They’re playing hip-hop,” Tom said.

  “Could you turn that down?” Allison glanced over and said, “Not right now, okay?” She went back to frowning through the windshield.

  He turned it off and shifted to get into the right side pocket of his pants. Showing her the three small black microphones in his palm, he pressed the window button. The cold air swirled into the car. Tom pitched the things out and closed the window.

  Allison stared at him. “What did you do that for?”

  “Does it make you feel better?”

  She laughed. “Well...yes. Tell Manny Suarez you left them at Zurin’s house. He can’t go ask him, can he?”

  “I should’ve done that before.” Tom interlaced his fingers and stretched out his arms, cracking his knuckles. “I was thinking. It doesn’t matter if Leo Zurin sees the Corelli is a fake. Know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because your dad could have bought it that way. Couldn’t he? The old lady he bought it from didn’t have papers to show the provenance.”

  Her face became serious again. “You were right about him. He was having an affair with Jenny Gray.”

  “Sorry I told you.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t care. After this, I’m cutting off my ties with him and Rhonda. I told him I didn’t want any business from his corporation. Just let me be an ordinary lawyer with ordinary clients. I want that. And I want you to be all right. Whatever you need to make it happen, I’ll do it, Tom.” She reached over and held his hand.

  The highway split and curved into a tunnel, then out again.

  The land had turned hard and gray. Bare outcrops of rock interrupted wide swaths of white. The peaks of the mountains merged with the heavy clouds.

  “It’s snowing up there,” Allison said.

  Following a river valley, they crossed the line into the bilingual province of Valle d’Aosta. Tom unfolded the fax and looked at Barlowe’s handwritten directions. He told Allison the sign for Champorcher would be another ten kilometers on, near a town called Hône. The S-2 would lead west to Pontboset, then they would look for the turnoff. Tom tried the radio again to see what was there, but only static came through the speakers.

  The road had been cut along the banks of a small river, following the folds of the mountains. Tom felt his body press into the leather seat as the car went up a steep grade. Downshifting, Allison took a sharp turn, then another. The Alfa held to the curves like a slot car. Snowflakes moved horizontally past the windows.

  They slowed going through toy villages with steeply pitched roofs. Coming out of Pontboset, the road made a long series of hairpin turns. Tom felt dizzy from the constant side-to-side motion, and his ears popped. The snow was falling steadily, and Allison turned on the wipers.

  Pine trees pressed on them from both sides as the road twisted up and up. Tom told her that the road to Zurin’s house would be the next left. Allison slowed and looked through the windshield at an unmarked one-lane road that vanished around an outcropping of granite.

  “Tom, are you sure this is right?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve been looking at the odometer. The GPS is useless up here.”

  She swung the wheel left and the car picked up speed. “If we don’t get there soon, I’m going to turn around and call from the nearest town.”

  “Do you have Leo Zurin’s number?”

  “I didn’t think to ask. I’ll try Stuart again.”

  Tom looked out his window. There was no guardrail, and the drop to the valley below was so precipitous he couldn’t see the bottom. “Slow down. This is making me nervous.”

  “Do you want to drive?”

  “No, thanks.”

  The tires rumbled over a patch of ice. A waterfall had frozen to the cliff above them, and immense boulders extended over the road. Allison’s eyes went to the rearview mirror. “Someone’s behind us.”

  “I guess it means this road goes somewhere,” Tom said. He looked around into the headlights of a dark SUV with a roof rack and big tires. The truck followed them down a hill, then around a switchback. The valley spread out before them, then was lost when they went into the trees. Allison muttered, “Get off my bumper, damn it.”

  The headlights closed in, and Tom read the word NIS- SAN on the black grille. “Let them get around.”

  “How? The road is too narrow.”

  She downshifted around a sharp curve, putting the two vehicles momentarily parallel to each other. Tom could see the driver’s window, but it was fogged, and he couldn’t see who was inside. When the road straightened, the truck quickly came up behind them again. He felt the jolt of the bumper tapping the rear of their car.

  He shouted, “Are they crazy?”

  “I’m not going to find out.” Allison pressed the accelerator, and the car shot up the hill. The truck fell behind. The Alfa’s tires skidded, then caught, as she made a sharp turn to the right.

  “Be careful, dammit!”

  “I am! Stop yelling at me.”

  The Nissan disappeared behind a curve, then came back into view. Snow swirled behind them, and gravel clattered on the underside of the car. They topped a hill, and the road veered left. Tom braced his feet and grabbed the handhold over the window.

  “Allison, slow down.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I don’t see them. Yes, I do. Shit. They’re right behind us.”

  “Help me look for a side road.” She leaned forward to see through the windshield. The wipers moved quickly across the glass. Trees came at them and blurred past.

  Tom shouted, “Look out!”

  The road ended at a gate. Two low stone columns supported a long triangle of rusty pipe. The headlights picked up a red circle with a horizontal black line. The car skidded sideways, plowing through the snow. It came to a stop with Tom’s door jammed against one of the columns. He could see nothing through the windshield but the tops of trees and the
peak of a mountain in the distance.

  Allison threw the car into reverse. The wheels spun. Tom looked past her and saw the Nissan a few yards away. Its wipers were going, and the headlights were on. It sat there a few seconds, then the doors opened. A woman in a white fur coat and hat and black high-heeled boots got out of the driver’s side. She walked toward their car and tried the door, then tapped on the glass with a gloved hand. “Are you all right? We tried to stop you. You took the wrong turn!”

  “My God. It’s Rhonda.” Allison put the car into park.

  “Don’t open the door!” Tom yelled.

  But Allison had already pulled on the door release. “Were you trying to run us off the road or what?”

  Stuart Barlowe leaned in, a face with a graying beard and dark-circled eyes. Snow was falling on the brim of his fedora. His eyes quickly went over the interior of the car. “Nobody’s hurt?”

  Tom shoved on his door. It opened a few inches and hit the stone pillar holding the gate. He felt for the buckle on his seat belt.

  “Do you have the map in the trunk? Is it safe?” Barlowe searched the dashboard for the trunk release button.

  “He can’t have the map!” Tom pushed Allison out of the way to squeeze through the seats and get to the rear door. When he opened it, he was staring into the barrel of a gun.

  Barlowe said, “I’m sorry. Get back in the car. Both of you.”

  Allison shouted at him, “Just take the goddamn map! Take it!”

  Barlowe pushed her door shut, then Tom’s, and stood outside to make sure they stayed closed. Allison turned in her seat. “Tom! Let them have it.”

  He felt the vibration of things shifting around. The trunk lid slammed shut.

  Snow obscured the back window. Tom looked out the side and saw Rhonda walking to the Nissan with the map tube. The engine was still running. She opened the driver’s door and climbed inside.

  Tom slid across the backseat and slammed a shoulder into the passenger side door. It came open a few inches and clanged into the metal gate.

  “Allison, your seat belt! We have to get out of the car!” Tom dove into the front and turned the key in the ignition. Allison was still staring through her window at Barlowe, who held the pistol. “Allison! We have to get out!”

  The engine noise grew louder, and the wheels of the truck turned. The headlights aimed directly at them.

  Tom hit the button to lower the passenger side window. It slowly slid down. He dove out headfirst as the Alfa skidded toward the edge. He reached back through the window, grabbed a fistful of Allison’s sleeve, and screamed her name.

  She scrambled over the console and put her head and arms through. He grabbed her wrists and pulled. The car teetered. The rear lifted off the ground, and the car slid out of sight. The crashing and screaming of metal went on and on.

  Sprawled on the ground, Tom was staring at the mudspattered side of the Nissan. He helped Allison to her feet as the big wheels spun on ice, then caught. The truck lurched backward and revealed Stuart Barlowe. He lifted the gun. “Stay there!”

  Allison yelled at him, “Why are you doing this?”

  Rhonda’s fur coat opened as she ran toward them.

  Barlowe stood at the edge of the road with the gun extended. Tom put Allison behind him. The gatepost blocked their retreat. When Tom shifted, stones slipped from under his foot and went over, clattering against the rocks.

  “Shoot him!” Rhonda’s voice was shrill, panicked. “I’ll take care of her!” She tried to push past Stuart, and he shook her off.

  The heel of her boot caught, and she lurched sideways toward the edge. Her arms whirled, and the heavy white coat made her awkward. She balanced for an instant, grabbing for his arm, for air.

  “Stuart!”

  He might have stopped her, but he watched her go down. There was a scream, cut short by the cracking of branches.

  He stepped to the edge of the cliff, and the snow covered his polished black shoes. He looked over, and his arms lifted as if he might throw himself after his wife.

  Allison buried her face in Tom’s chest.

  Then Barlowe dropped his arms. He swung the gun gently back, then forward, letting go. The gun vanished over the side. As if the string holding him up had been cut, he collapsed and sat in the snow with his long legs straight out in front of him.

  There was no sound except for the wind in the tops of the pines and a soft tapping of snow on Barlowe’s hat.

  Tom finally breathed. “This is how they killed Nigel. They murdered your uncle. They put his body in his car and shoved it off the road in a snowstorm—”

  “No. You don’t get it. This is Nigel.” Allison ran over and grabbed the shoulder of Barlowe’s coat in her fists. She shook him, and in the still, cold air, her voice echoed on the mountains. “You killed him, didn’t you, you bastard! You murdered my father! I knew! Somewhere inside me I knew!”

  He held up his hands. She flailed at him with her fists. His hat fell off, and his hair fell across his forehead.

  “Allison, that’s enough.” Tom pulled her away from the edge and held her as she sobbed. He looked at the man who sat staring blankly out over the ravine. “Nigel. You’re Nigel Barlowe.”

  His brows lifted as though he had just realized it, too. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  Chapter 34

  Tom backed the SUV up to where Nigel Barlowe was sitting, went around, and opened the back door. He threw a couple of suitcases out and

  found some bright yellow rope in an emergency kit. Barlowe seemed docile enough, but Tom tied his hands behind his back and said he was ready to send him where Rhonda had gone if he moved.

  Allison was leaning against the front bumper with her back turned and her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her red beret and her coat were in the car at the bottom of the ravine, and she was cold, but she didn’t want to be anywhere near Nigel Barlowe. She had suggested they tie him to the roof rack.

  Tom helped Barlowe sit on the rear floor and swing his legs in. He tied his ankles, pulling the rope tight. “Who killed your brother? You or Rhonda?”

  “Stuart was already dead. They had argued. He fell down the stairs. She said it was an accident. Rhonda wanted me to help her, and I did. I drove to Chamonix from Geneva.”

  “You believed her?”

  “I did then. We were in love. She was the most beautiful, intelligent, vital woman.”

  “So you shoved your car off a cliff with him in it.” “Yes.”

  “And you took his place.”

  “We put my identification in his wallet. Stuart and I

  looked similar enough. I hadn’t been to Canada in so long. I never went back. I grew out my beard, like his, and I became him.”

  “Why? You could’ve had Rhonda. You could’ve married her as Nigel.”

  “Well, there was Allison to consider. She would have inherited. Stuart controlled the family business, you see. I was deeply in debt. No, it made more sense if ...Stuart remained alive.”

  “Jesus. You people.” Tom put another length of rope through a metal loop in the floor and fastened that to the rope around Barlowe’s wrists and ankles. “Royce Herron found out. Is that how it went? You hired Marek Vuksinic to kill him.”

  “I didn’t know until afterward. Rhonda told me she’d asked Larry to take care of it. Larry didn’t know the truth. She told him it had to be done if we wanted to keep The Metropolis going. I’m sorry about Royce. I liked him.”

  With a harsh laugh, Tom jerked on the rope to test it, and Barlowe winced. “Which one of you killed Jenny Gray?”

  “Rhonda. She said that Jenny had found out about me from Royce. She went to London to talk to her. It got out of hand.”

  “Out of hand?” Tom tied the rope around Barlowe’s ankles to a metal cargo hook in the floor. “Jenny knew nothing. She pretended to, so you’d pay her.”

  “Rhonda said Jenny knew.”

  “Well, she didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

&nb
sp; “Sure. How could you do that? How do you live with it?”

  “I loved my wife.”

  “Not enough to save her.”

  Barlowe shifted his shoulders and put his head against the back of the rear passenger seat. “I don’t mind going to prison. I think it will be very peaceful.”

  “You think so?” Tom backed out of the rear of the truck. “You should have jumped.”

  The village of Champorcher lay in a long valley. From the road approaching the town, Tom could see roofs of red tile, a church, a stone clock tower. He drove in slowly past an old Roman arch that must have been standing there two thousand years. Snow had collected on top of the arch and on the dark green branches of the pine trees along the road. Only a few snowflakes were drifting across the windshield, but the sky was still gray.

  Tom heard Allison sniffle. She had been crying all the way down the mountain, and she’d run out of tissues. Now she was lifting her glasses to wipe her eyes on the hem of her cotton turtleneck. Tom pulled off the road and left the engine running and the heater blowing through the vents. He hunted through the glove compartment and found a paper napkin. “Here.”

  She grabbed it and shoved the door open.

  “Allison, don’t—”

  But the door slammed, and she began to trudge quickly along the side of the road toward the village. Tom checked the rearview and saw the gray top of Barlowe’s head. The man was off in his own world. Tom drove forward to catch up with Allison, then skidded to a stop outside a small food market and ran to intercept her.

  “I refuse to breathe the same air as that son of a bitch,” she said, tight-jawed. “It would contaminate my lungs.”

  “Okay.” Tom held her hand.

  “Thirty years of lies! My whole life is a lie!” “No, it’s not. You’re not a lie, Allison. I couldn’t love

  you as much if you were.” She started crying again, and he put his arms around her. Her hair and face were cold. “I feel like my father died twice. It’s not fair!”

  “Hey, look how close we are to the center of Champorcher,” Tom said. “See that church steeple? The main piazza has got to be just over there.”