The Spiral Path (37 page)

A willingness to reveal oneself was
essential to acting. He'd done a fair amount of that early in his career, when
he was working in England. Then he'd gone to Hollywood and become an action
star, where he could do a good job without ever having to push himself until it
hurt. In fact, he'd avoided roles that might have made him uncomfortable, until
The Centurion.

His thoughts circled back to the bedrock
truth that if he was anything, he was an actor. He owed it to himself, Rainey,
and his craft to do his best no matter how painful that might be. Which meant
spilling his guts.

He spent the rest of his walk thinking
about the scene and the character, then returned to the set. Rainey was
frowning over the script, but she stood when he approached, her gaze
questioning.

"Let's do it," he said
tersely.

She nodded and set the script aside. As
she took her position, she said, "You might want to try looking right into
my eyes this time."

As he waited for the makeup girl to
tousle his hair to her satisfaction, he realized that on the previous takes,
he'd avoided looking directly at Rainey because of his desire to conceal
himself from her. It took a lot of trust to reveal so much to a woman he'd
wronged. He inhaled deeply, then gave her a nod of readiness.

"Now," she said, her voice
gentle.

As the camera began to roll, he gazed
into the infinite depths of her eyes, and revealed his bleeding soul, sentence
by stammering sentence: the horror, the pain, the humiliation that had
destroyed his sense of who he was, leaving ... nothing.

He nailed the scene perfectly.

"Cut!" Jubilant, Rainey
released his hands and threw her arms around him, tears streaming down her
cheeks. "Kenzie, I've always known you were one of the best actors
anywhere, but you surpassed yourself that time."

Though glad he'd finally got it right,
he felt too raw to deal with anyone, even Rainey. "Twelfth time
lucky." He disentangled himself from her hug. Trying not to sound too
brusque, he said, "See you in the morning."

He broke away from her and escaped to
his trailer, waving off a makeup girl and costumer. Usually he appreciated help
in removing makeup and complicated period costumes, but at the moment he
couldn't bear to be touched. Swiftly he cleaned off his makeup and exchanged
his Victorian outfit for slacks, shirt, and sweater.

Josh had left a pile of messages,
stacked in order of importance. He ignored them. Grabbing his car keys, he
stepped from the trailer.

And ran smack into Nigel Stone. As a
camera flashed in Kenzie's face, the reporter gave a smile that wouldn't have
looked out of place on a snake. "You're raising the
Inquirer's
circulation,
Mr. Scott. Readers are fascinated by the hunt for the real man. Information has
been flooding in. Care to make any comments? I thought the Welshman who
suggested you were a naval deserter might be on to something."

To be accosted by this weasel
now.
Kenzie
tightened his fist against a violent desire to smash Stone's ugly face, but
he'd learned early that it was disastrous to allow a bully to know that he was
getting under one's skin. Especially in front of a photographer who was busily
recording every detail.

Collecting himself, he managed a piece
of acting almost as difficult as what he'd just done for the camera. "A
very entertaining series, Mr. Stone." Smiling with practiced charm, he walked
past the reporter. "Some of your stories are better than the ones I've
been spinning for years. I'm glad that such a good time is being had by
all."

Stone pursued him. "I couldn't find
a record of the birth of a Kenzie Scott on the date you claim, or for years in
either direction, so you must have changed your name."

"One could assume that. Now if
you'll excuse me, I'm late for an engagement."

As he unlocked the door of the Jaguar,
Stone said sharply, "I know who you are, Scott, and I swear to God I'll
find the evidence I need to expose you."

For an instant Kenzie froze.
Reminding
himself that Stone couldn't possibly be sure, he slid into the low car, quoting
Macbeth,
"'Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts
and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.' I'm merely an
actor, Stone, a creature of smoke and mirrors. There's no mysterious truth.
Only what meaning or pleasure people find in my work."

He slammed the door, put the car into
gear, and roared away, wheels spitting gravel back at the reporter and
photographer. Kenzie's facade of composure lasted long enough to get him out of
sight. As his underlying exhaustion took over, once more he wondered bleakly if
he'd be able to finish the shooting schedule. He'd given the movie his best,
and now, like John Randall, he was left with ... nothing.

He
drove west along the coast into Cornwall, then turned inland, following the old
B roads, marked yellow on most maps, that wound their way through villages and
towns far from the modern motorways. On the rocky coast route, he whipped the
Jaguar around tight turns on steep winding roads.

Such driving required complete
concentration, preventing his thoughts from circling obsessively. Inland he
once had to slam the brakes on to avoid plowing into a herd of sheep, and later
nearly smashed a bicyclist riding down the center of the road. After that, he
slowed a little, but not much.

His only stop was for petrol. Probably
he should eat, since he hadn't been doing much of that lately, but he dropped
the idea when his stomach knotted.

Driving helped banish thoughts of Nigel
Stone and John Randall and the carefully constructed being known as Kenzie Scott,
but he couldn't escape Rainey so easily. He yearned for her as a dying man
yearned for grace. Damnably, he knew that if he went to her for comfort, she'd
give it with no questions asked. Yet he'd forfeited the right to ask for it.

So he drove through the night in a
futile attempt to outrun the demons.

He
returned late to the small hotel that was temporarily home. He'd barely slept
for days, and wouldn't tonight despite his bone-deep exhaustion. He'd have to
settle for lying down and relaxing, muscle by muscle, which experience had
taught him would permit some rest. At least enough to face the next day.

His hand was on the porcelain knob of
his room when he looked across the narrow hall at the door to Rainey's suite.
She was just inside there. Soft, warm, accepting, with the generous heart she
did her best to conceal in her professional life. So close...

More than anything on earth, he wanted
to hold her. Reason and conscience debated instinct, and lost. There were a
couple of paper clips in his pocket, so he dug them out and straightened them
into lengths of wire.

The hotel locks were primitive, and he'd
lost none of his old skill. It took less than a minute to pick the lock, and go
in to his wife.

CHAPTER 21