Assumed Identity

by David Morrell

  The oppressive night concealed him. Shivering, his skin prickling from the river's dampness, Buchanan tugged the body across a screened porch, down three steps, and toward this deserted section of the river. He eased down the bank, found a log, hunched the body over it, shoved the log into the current, and watched as the body slipped off as soon as the current grabbed the log. The two objects drifted away, at once out of sight in the darkness. Buchanan threw the rug as far as he could into the river. He took out the man's gun, which he'd put beneath his belt, and threw it out into the river as well, obeying the rule of never keeping a weapon whose history you don't know. Finally he took out the killer's cellular phone along with the three empty shell casings from Buchanan's semiautomatic - he'd picked them up as he left the house - and threw them toward where the gun had splashed. He stared toward nothing, took several deep breaths to calm himself, and hurried back to the house.

  16

  His ears rang from the roar of the gunshots. His nostrils widened from the stench of cordite and blood. Drawing his weapon had pulled the stitches in his side and strained the muscles in his injured shoulder. Tugging the body had further strained his side and shoulder. His head continued to feel as if a spike had been driven through it.

  He locked the back door behind him, found another rug, took it into the computer room, and set it over the pool of blood. Then he opened a window to clear the smells of violence. Next, he searched the man's wallet, found close to three hundred dollars in various denominations, a driver's license for Charles Duffy of Philadelphia and a credit card for that name. Charles Duffy might be an alias. It probably was. It didn't matter. If these credentials had been good enough for the killer, they were good enough for Buchanan. He shoved the wallet into his pocket. He now had a new identity. On the unlikely chance that anybody in this remote area had heard the shots and came to investigate, everything looked normal, except for the finger-sized hole in the hallway ceiling, which by itself wouldn't arouse suspicion, although the pieces of plaster on the floor would. Buchanan picked them up and shoved them into a pocket.

  With haste, he sat before the computer, glanced at the file directory on the screen, A B C D. moved the flashing cursor from A to D, and pressed RETURN.

  The disc drive made a clicking sound. A new list of files appeared on the screen, a subdirectory for all the headings under D.

  'tDARNEL 3k

  DARNELL.BAK 3k

  DAYTON 2k

  DAYTON.BAK 2k

  DIAZ 4k

  DIAZ.BAK 4k

  DIEGO 5k

  DIEGO.BAK 5k

  DOMINGUEZ 4k

  DOMINGUEZ.BAK 4k

  DRUMMER 5k

  DRUMMOND.BAK 5k

  DURAN 3k

  DURAN.BAK 3k

  DURANGO 5k

  DURANGO.BAK 5k

  Quickly, Buchanan opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet and took out the printed documents for D. The only way he could think of to learn whether someone had removed any of the files was to compare the names on the files with those in the computer's subdirectory. Even so, he didn't have much hope. The man who'd been hiding here to kill Juana had said that he'd erased some files in the computer, presumably to stop an investigator from doing what Buchanan was trying to do. Almost certainly the computer's list would match the names on the printed files. He wouldn't be able to tell which documents were missing.

  Each computer file had a companion file marked BAK, the short form for BACKUP, signifying that the computer's memory retained the previous version of a newly updated file. DARNELL. DARNELL.BAK. Comparing, Buchanan found a printed file for that name.

  He continued. DAYTON. DAYTON.BAK. Check. DIAZ. DIAZ.BAK. Check. DIEGO. DIEGO.BAK. Check. He was finding printed files for every name on the computer screen. DOMINGUEZ. DOMINGUEZ.BAK. DRUMMER. DRUMMER.BAK. DURAN. DURAN.BAK. DURANGO. DURANGO.BAK. Every name was accounted for.

  He leaned back, exhausted. He'd wasted his time. There'd been no point in risking his life to come here. All he'd learned was that someone was determined to kill Juana, which he'd known already.

  And for that, he himself had nearly been killed.

  He rubbed his swollen eyelids, glanced at the computer screen, reached to turn off the computer, but at the final instant, stopped his trembling hand, telling himself that no matter how hopeless, he had to keep trying. Even though the subdirectory for the files that began with 'I would probably be as uninformative as the subdirectory for D, he couldn't ignore it.

  He shifted his hand from the OFF button to the keyboard, about to switch subdirectories, when something about the image on the screen made him feel cold. He'd been aware that a detail had been troubling the edge of his consciousness, but he'd attributed his unease to apprehension and the disturbing aftermath of violence.

  Now he realized what had been troubling him. His eyes had played a trick on him. DRUMMER. DRUMMER.BAK. Like hell. Drummer didn't have a backup file. The backup file was for DRUMMOND. Buchanan was certain that he hadn't seen a file for Drummond, but by now exhaustion so controlled him that he couldn't trust what he thought he was sure of. His hands shook as he sorted through the printed files. DRUMMER. DURAN. DURANGO. No Drummond.

  Christ, he thought. When the killer erased the Drummond file, he hadn't thought to erase the backup file, or maybe he'd considered doing so but had been stopped because his eyes played the same trick on him that Buchanan's eyes had played, creating the impression that DRUMMOND.BAK was actually DRUMMER.BAK. The names looked so much alike.

  Drummond.

  Buchanan didn't know what the name signified, and when he accessed the DRUMMOND.BAK file, he found to his dismay that it was empty. Either Juana had created the file but never put information into it, or else the assassin had erased it from the inside.

  Buchanan accessed the subdirectory for T, and now that he knew what to look for, he checked the backup files rather than the primary ones, comparing the names to those on the printed 'I documents that he took from the filing cabinet.

  TAYLOR.BAK. TAMAYO.BAK. TANBERG.BAK. TERRA-ZA.BAK. TOLSA.BAK. He was becoming more aware of the considerable number of Hispanic names. TOMEZ.BAK. Buchanan's pulse increased.

  There wasn't any Tomez in the printed files or in the primary files of the computer's subdirectory for T. Again, Buchanan entered the file, and again he found nothing. Cursing, he wondered if Juana herself had erased the contents of the file. All Buchanan had was two last names, and if the assassin hadn't made the mistake of not deleting the backup titles, Buchanan wouldn't even have learned those names.

  Frustrated, he debated what else to do, reluctantly shut off the computer, and decided to make a quick search of the house, even though he was sure that whoever wanted to kill Juana had sanitized the place.

  That was when a chill swept through him as he remembered something odd that the killer had said. 'Where I bunked. Weird. No wonder the woman had it locked. Probably didn't want her parents to see what she had in there. At first, I thought it was body parts.'

  17

  Body parts? There'd been so much to do that until now Buchanan hadn't had the time to find out what the killer referred to. Apprehensive, he stood, left the computer room, and walked along the short hallway toward the next room on the left. The door was open, but the light was off, so that Buchanan couldn't see what was in there. When the killer had gone in to get his cellular phone, he evidently had known exactly where to find it and hadn't needed to turn on a light. Now Buchanan braced himself, noticed that the door had a dead-bolt lock, unusual for an indoor room, and groped along the inside wall to find a light switch.

  When the overhead light gleamed, he blinked, not only from the sudden illumination but as well because of what he saw.

  The room was startling.

  Body parts? Yes, Buchanan could understand why the killer had first thought that body parts were what he was looking at.

  Everywhere, except for a corner where the killer had placed a mattress for himself, there were tables upon which objects that res
embled noses, ears, chins, cheeks, teeth, and foreheads were laid out in front of mirrors that had lights around them. One table had nothing but hair - different colors, different styles. Wigs, Buchanan realized. And what seemed to be body parts were prosthetic devices similar to what plastic surgeons used to reconstruct damaged faces. Another table was devoted exclusively to several makeup kits.

  As Buchanan entered the room, staring to the right and then the left, then straight ahead, studying each table and the various array of eerily realistic imitations of human features, he understood that in her security business Juana had become a version of what he was. But whereas his own specialty was creating new personalities, hers was creating new appearances.

  He'd never been confident with disguises. On occasion, he would grow a mustache or a beard, or else he would put on well-made facsimiles. A few times, he had used non-corrective contact lenses that changed the color of his eyes. A few other times, he had altered the length, style, and color of his hair. As well, he always tried to make each of his identities dress differently from the others, preferring particular watches, belts, shoes, shirts, sunglasses, even ballpoint pens, anything to make each character distinctive, just as each character had a favorite food, favorite music, favorite writer, favorite.

  But Juana had become the ultimate impersonator. If Buchanan's suspicion was correct, she hadn't only been altering her personality with each job - she had been totally altering her physical appearance, not just her clothes but her facial characteristics, her weight, her height. Buchanan found padding that would have increased Juana's bust size. He found other padding that would have made her look pregnant. He found cleverly designed sneakers that had lifts that would have made her seem taller. He found makeup cream that would even have lightened the color of her skin.

  A part of him was filled with professional amazement. But another part was horrified, realizing that at Caf‚ du Monde in New Orleans, she could have been sitting right next to him while he waited for her to enter the restaurant, and he would never have known how close she was. During his quest, he might have bumped into her or even spoken to her and never have been aware.

  What had happened to her in the past six years? Where had she learned this stuff? Who was he looking for? She could be anybody. She could look like anybody. He remembered the last conversation they'd had. 'You don't know me,' he'd said to justify his inability to commit to her. 'You only know who I pretend to be.'

  Well, she had outdone him, becoming the ultimate pretender. As he'd gone through the house, he'd thought it frustrating and strange that he'd found no photographs of her. He'd wanted so much to be reminded of her brown eyes, her shiny black hair, her hauntingly lovely face. Then he'd suspected that her hunters had taken the photographs so they'd be better able to memorize what she looked like. But if so, he now understood, the photographs wouldn't do them any good because there wasn't any definitive image of her. It may have been that Juana herself had removed the photographs because she no longer identified with any individual version of her appearance. Buchanan suddenly had the terrible sense that the woman he (or Peter Lang or whoever the hell he was) had fallen in love with was as insubstantial as a ghost. As himself. He felt sick. But he still had to find her.

  18

  He closed the window in the computer room, then used a handkerchief to wipe his fingerprints off everything he had touched. He shut off lights as he left each room, reconfirmed that he had done everything he had to, and finally shut the front door behind him, using his picks to relock the two dead-bolts. When the killer's partner arrived to begin his shift, the partner would take a while to figure out what had happened. The two rugs that had been moved (and one of which was missing), the bullet hole in the hallway ceiling, the blood beneath the rug that Buchanan had put in the computer room - each individually would not be obvious, but together they would eventually tell the story. The killer's partner would then waste time looking for the body. His report to his bosses would be confused, adding to the further confusion that the two snipers watching the Mendez house couldn't be found, either. The only certainty was that the people who were hunting Juana knew that a man named Brendan Buchanan had visited Juana's parents, and that made it equally certain that they would associate Brendan Buchanan with everything that had happened tonight. By morning, they'll be hunting me, he thought. No. They'll be hunting Brendan Buchanan. With luck, it'll take them a while to realize that tonight I became Charles Duffy.

  Patting the wallet that he'd taken from the dead man and put in his jacket, Buchanan got into the Jeep Cherokee and backed from the driveway. His hands shook. His wounds hurt. His head throbbed. He'd come to the limit of his endurance. But he had to keep going.

  A mile down the murky road, at the bottom of a misty hollow, he came to the van. Getting out of the jeep, he kept his right hand behind his back so that he could quickly draw his weapon if there had been trouble while he was away. He saw movement in the mist, tensed, then relaxed somewhat as Anita came toward him, telling him in Spanish that Pedro was in back with the bound and gagged sentries.

  'The phone kept ringing.'

  'I know,' Buchanan said.

  'We thought it might be you, but it didn't ring twice, stop, and then ring again as you said it would if it was you. We didn't answer.'

  'You did the right thing.'

  Buchanan studied her. She seemed nervous, yes, but not in a way that suggested she knew that someone was hiding and aiming a weapon at her. Nonetheless he didn't fully relax until he made sure that the prisoners were as they had been and that nothing had happened to Pedro.

  'Did you find Juana?' Pedro asked.

  'No.'

  'Did you find any sign of her?'

  'No,' Buchanan lied.

  'Then this was pointless. What are we going to do?'

  'Leave me alone with these men for a minute. Sit with your wife in the jeep,' Buchanan said.

  'Why?' Pedro looked suspicious. 'If you're going to question them about Juana, I want to hear.'

  'No.'

  'What do you mean? I told you if this is about my daughter, I want to hear.'

  'Sometimes it's better to be ignorant.'

  'I don't understand,' Pedro said.

  'You will. Just leave me alone with these men.'

  Pedro hesitated, then somberly got out of the van.

  Buchanan watched to make sure that Pedro got into the jeep with Anita. Only then did he close the van's rear doors. The back of the van smelled from when Buchanan had allowed each man to use the porta-potty before he drove to Juana's house. They were still naked and looked chilled.

  He aimed a flashlight at one man and then the other. 'You should have told me the sentry was in the house.'

  Terror made their eyes wide, their faces gaunt.

  'Now he's dead,' Buchanan said.

  Their fearful expressions intensified.

  'That puts the two of you in an awkward position,' Buchanan said. He took out his gun and used his other hand to ungag the first man.

  'I figured,' the man said. 'That's why you sent the man and woman away. You didn't want them to see you kill us.'

  Buchanan picked up a blanket from a corner of the van.

  'Sure,' the man said in despair. 'A blanket can make a not-bad silencer.'

  Buchanan pulled the blanket over the man and his partner. 'I wouldn't want you to get pneumonia.'

  'What?' The man looked surprised.

  'If our positions were reversed,' Buchanan said, 'what would you do to me?

  The man didn't answer.

  'We're alike, yet we're not,' Buchanan said. 'Both of us have killed. The difference is, I'm not a killer.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'Is the distinction too subtle for you to grasp? I'll make it plain. I'm not going to kill you.'

  The man looked simultaneously troubled and bewildered, as if mercy were not a familiar concept.

  'Provided you follow the ground rules,' Buchanan said.

&nbs
p; 'What kind of.?'

  'First of all, you're going to stay tied up until sunset,' Buchanan said. 'You'll be fed, given water, and allowed to use the toilet. But you'll remain in the van. Is that clear?'

  The man frowned and nodded.

  'Second, when you're released, you will not harm Pedro and Anita Mendez. They know nothing about me. They know nothing about their daughter. They're totally ignorant about any of this. If you torture them or use any other means to interrogate them, I'll get angry. You do not want me to be angry. If anything happens to them, I'll make your worst fears seem an understatement. You can hide. You can switch identities. It won't do you any good. I make a specialty of finding people. For the rest of your life, you'll keep looking behind you. Clear?'