Across from the terminal, in the airport's crowded parking ramp, the man unlocked a gray van, the side of which was stenciled with white: BON VOYAGE INC., PLEASURE CRAFTS REFITTED, REMODELED. Until then, they'd been making small talk, but now Buchanan became silent, waiting for the man to give him directions, to let him know if it was safe to speak candidly and to tell him what scenario he was supposed to follow.
As the man drove from the parking ramp, he pressed a button on what looked like a portable radio mounted under the dash. 'Okay. The jammer's on. It's safe to talk. I'll give you the quick version and fill in the fine points later. I'm Jack Doyle. Used to be a SEAL. Took a hit in Panama, had to resign, and started a business, outfitting pleasure boats in Fort Lauderdale. All of that's true. Now this is where you come in. From time to time, I do favors for people I used to work for. In this case, they've asked me to give you a cover. You're supposed to be an employee of mine. Your controllers supplied all the necessary background documentation, social security, taxes, that sort of thing. As Victor Grant, you used to be in the SEALS as well, so it was natural that I'd treat you like more than just a hired hand. You live in an apartment above my office. You're a loner. You travel around a lot, doing jobs for me. If my neighbors get asked about you, it won't be surprising that they're not familiar with you. Any questions?'
'How long have you employed me?'
'Three months.'
'How much do I earn?'
'Thirty thousand a year.'
'In that case, I'd like a raise.'
Doyle laughed. 'Good. A sense of humor. We'll get along.'
'Sure,' Buchanan said. 'But we'll get along even better if you stop at that gas station up ahead.'
'Oh?'
'Otherwise I'll be pissing blood inside your van.'
'Jesus.'
Doyle quickly turned off the freeway toward a gas station. When Buchanan came out of the men's room, Doyle was leaving a pay phone. 'I called one of our team who's acting as communications relay at the airport. He's positive no one followed you.'
Buchanan slumped against the van, his face cold with sweat. 'You'd better get me to a.'
2
The doctor stood beside Buchanan's bed, read Buchanan's chart, listened to his heart and respiration, checked his intravenous bottle, then took off his bifocals and scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. 'You have an amazing constitution, Mr Grant. Normally I don't see anybody as banged up as you unless they've been in a serious car accident.' He paused. 'Or.'
He never finished his statement, but Buchanan was certain that what the doctor meant to add was 'combat' just as Buchanan was certain that Doyle would never have brought him here unless the small hospital had affiliations with his controllers. In all likelihood, the doctor had once been a military physician.
'I have the results of your X-rays and other tests,' the doctor continued. 'Your wound is infected, as you guessed. But now that I've redressed and resutured it and started you on antibiotics, it ought to heal with reasonable speed and without complication. Your temperature is already coming down.'
'Which means - given how serious you look - the bad news is my internal bleeding,' Buchanan said.
The doctor hesitated. 'Actually that bleeding seems more serious than it is. No doubt, it must have been quite a shock when you discovered blood in your urine. I'm sure you've been worried about a ruptured organ. The reassuring truth is that the bleeding is caused by a small, broken blood vessel in your bladder. Surgery isn't necessary. If you rest, if you don't indulge in strenuous activity, the bleeding will stop and the vessel will heal fairly soon. It sometimes occurs among obsessive joggers, for example. If they take a few weeks off, they're able to jog again.'
'Then what is it?' The doctor's somber expression made Buchanan more uneasy. 'What's wrong?'
'The injury to your skull, Mr Grant. And the periodic tremors in your right hand.'
Buchanan's chest felt icy. 'I thought the tremors were caused by shock to the nerves because of the wound in my shoulder. When the wound heals, I assumed.'
The doctor squinted, concerned. 'Shock. Nerves. You're partially correct. The problem does involve the nerves. But not in the way you imagine. Mr Grant, to repeat, you have an amazing constitution. Your skull has been fractured. You've suffered a concussion. That accounts for your dizziness and blurred vision. Frankly, given the bruise I saw on the CAT-scan of your brain, I'm amazed that you were able to stay on your feet, let alone think on your feet. You must have remarkable endurance, not to mention determination.'
'It's called adrenaline, Doctor.' Buchanan's voice dropped. 'You're telling me I have neurologic damage?'
'That's my opinion.'
'Then what happens now? An operation?'
'Not without a second opinion,' the doctor said. 'I'd have to consult with a specialist.'
Restraining an inward tremor, appalled by the notion of willingly being rendered unconscious, Buchanan said, 'I'm asking for your opinion, Doctor.'
'Have you been sleeping for an unusual amount of time?'
'Sleeping?' Buchanan almost laughed but resisted the impulse because he knew that the laugh would sound hysterical. 'I've been too busy to sleep.'
'Have you vomited?'
'No.'
'Have you experienced any unusual physical aberrations, apart from the dizziness, blurred vision, and tremors in your right hand?'
'No.'
'Your answers are encouraging. I'd like to consult with a specialist in neurology. It may be that surgery isn't required.'
'And if it isn't?' Buchanan asked rigidly. 'What's my risk?'
'I try not to deal with an hypothesis. First we'll watch you carefully, wait until tomorrow morning, do another CAT-scan, and see if the bruise on your brain has reduced in size.'
'Best case,' Buchanan said. 'Suppose the bruise shrinks. Suppose I don't need an operation.'
'The best case is the worst case,' the doctor said. "Damaged brain cells do not regenerate. I'd make very certain that I was never struck on my skull again.'
3
The one-story house was in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale called Plantation, its plain design disguised by abundant shrubs and flowers.
Someone obviously took loving care of the property. Buchanan wondered if Doyle made a hobby of landscaping. Their conversation during the drive from the hospital to Doyle's home indicated that the recession had affected Doyle's business and he was hardly in a position to afford a gardener. But after Doyle parked in a carport and led Buchanan through the side screen door into the house, it quickly became obvious who was taking care of the grounds.
Doyle had a wife. Buchanan hadn't been sure inasmuch as Doyle didn't wear a wedding ring, and Buchanan seldom asked personal questions. But now he faced an energetic, pixyish woman a little younger than Doyle, maybe thirty. She had happy eyes, cheerleader freckles, and an engaging, spontaneous smile. Buchanan couldn't tell what color her hair was because she had it wrapped in a black-and-red-checkered handkerchief. She wore a white, cotton apron, and her hands were covered with flour from a ball of dough that she was kneading on a butcher-board counter.
'Oh, my,' she said with a pleasant Southern accent (Louisiana, Buchanan thought), 'I didn't think you'd be here this soon.' Appealingly flustered, she touched her face and left a flour print on her freckles. 'The house is a mess. I haven't had time to-'
'The house looks fine, Cindy. Really,' Doyle said. 'Traffic wasn't as bad as I figured. That's why we're early. Sorry.'
Cindy chuckled. 'Might as well look on the bright side. Now I don't have to wear myself out, rushing to clean the house.'
Her smile was infectious. Buchanan returned it.
Doyle gestured toward him. 'Cindy, this is my friend I told you about. Vic Grant. I used to know him in the service. He's been working for me the past three months.'
'Pleased to meet you.' Cindy held out her hand. Then she remembered the flour on it, blushed, and started to retract the hand.
'No, that's okay,' Buc
hanan said. 'I like the feel of flour.' He shook hands with her.
'Classy guy,' she told her husband.
'Hey, all my friends are classy.'
'Tell me another one.' She studied Buchanan, pointing at the thick bandage around his skull. 'I've got another black-and-red handkerchief that'll sure look better than that.'
Buchanan grinned. 'I'm not supposed to take this off for a while. It doesn't do much good. It's not like a cast or anything. But it reminds me to be careful of my head.'
'Fractured skull, Jack told me.'
Buchanan nodded, his head still aching.
He expected her to ask him how he'd injured it. That would be a natural, logical next statement, and he was preparing to repeat his lie about falling off a boat, but she surprised him, suddenly switching topics, gesturing toward the dough on the counter. 'I'm making you a pie. I hope you like Key lime.'
He hid his puzzlement and told her, 'I seldom taste homemade pie. I'm sure anything you cook would be wonderful.'
'Jack, I like this guy better and better.'
'I'll show you to the guest room,' Doyle said.
'Anything you need, just ask,' Cindy added.
'Hey, I bet everything is fine,' Buchanan said. 'I really appreciate your taking me in like this. I don't have a family or anything, and the doctor thought it would be better if.'
'Shush,' Cindy said. 'For the next few days, we're your family.'
As Doyle led Buchanan from the kitchen toward a sunlit hallway, Buchanan glanced back toward Cindy, still puzzled about why she hadn't asked him the obvious question about what had happened to his skull.
By now, she had turned from him and resumed kneading the ball of dough on the butcher-board counter. Buchanan noticed that she had flour handprints on the trim hips of her jeans. Then he noticed something else. A snub-nosed.38 revolver was mounted to a bracket beneath the wall-phone next to the screen door, and Buchanan knew that Jack Doyle would never have chosen that type of weapon for himself. Doyle would have considered it a toy, preferring a semi-automatic 9-millimeter or a.45. No, the snub-nosed revolver was for Cindy, and Buchanan was willing to bet that she knew how to use it.
Was the gun there as a precaution against burglars? Buchanan wondered. Had Doyle's experience with the SEALS made him extra security conscious in civilian life? As Buchanan followed Doyle down the hallway, he remembered Doyle's comment about sometimes doing favors for people he used to work for, and immediately he decided that the revolver wasn't the only weapon he'd find around the house and that Doyle intended the weapons to be a protection for Cindy against the possible consequences of some of those favors.
'Well, here it is.' Doyle led Buchanan into a pleasant, homey bedroom with lace curtains, an antique rocking chair, and an oriental carpet on a hardwood floor. 'The bathroom's through there. You don't have to share it. We've got our own. No tub, though. Just a shower.'
'No problem,' Buchanan said. 'I prefer a shower.'
Doyle set Buchanan's bag on a polished bench at the foot of the bed. 'That's about it for now, I guess. Unpack. Have a nap. There's plenty of books on that shelf. Or watch TV.' He pointed toward a small set on a bureau in the corner. 'Make like the place is yours. I'll come back and let you know when lunch is ready.'
'Thanks.'
Doyle didn't leave, though. He looked preoccupied.
'What's the matter?' Buchanan asked.
'I don't know your real background, and it isn't right for me to know it, but I figure, considering the people who asked me to give you cover, we must be brothers of a sort. I appreciate your thanks. It isn't necessary, though.'
'I understand.'
Doyle hesitated. 'I've been following the rules. I haven't asked you any questions. All I need to know I assume I've been told. But there is one thing. What happened and why you're here. If you're able to. Is there any danger to Cindy?'
Buchanan suddenly liked this man very much. 'No. To the best of my knowledge, there isn't any danger to Cindy.'
The muscles in Doyle's cheeks relaxed. 'Good. She doesn't know anything about the favors I do. When I was in the SEALS, she never knew where I was being sent or how long I'd be gone. Never asked a single question. Took everything on faith. Never even asked why I wanted her to learn how to shoot or why I've got guns mounted around the house.'
'Like the revolver beneath the phone on the wall in the kitchen?' Buchanan asked.
'Yeah, I saw you noticed it. And like this one.' Doyle raised the cover from the side of the bed and showed Buchanan a Colt 9-millimeter in a holster attached to the bedframe. 'Just in case. You ought to know about it. I don't care what happens to me, but Cindy. Well, she's a damned fine woman. I don't deserve her. And she doesn't deserve any trouble I bring home.'
'She's safe, Jack.'
'Good,' Doyle repeated.
4
The muffled ringing of a phone wakened him. Buchanan became alert immediately, and that encouraged him. His survival instincts were still functioning. He glanced from the bed toward the end table, didn't see a phone, then gazed toward the closed door of the guest room beyond which he again heard the phone, its ring muted by distance, presumably down the hall in the kitchen. He heard a murky voice, female, Cindy's. Then he heard Jack. The conversation was brief. The house became silent again.
Buchanan glanced at his watch, surprised that it showed half-past noon, that what had felt like a fifteen-minute nap had lasted almost two hours. The doctor had warned him about sleeping more than usual. Past noon? He frowned. Lunch should be ready by now, and he wondered why Cindy or Jack hadn't roused him. He stretched his arms, testing the stiffness in his shoulder where his wound had been restitched, then put on his shoes and got up from the bed.
He heard a soft rap on the door.
'Vic?' Cindy whispered.
'It's all right. I'm up.' Buchanan opened the door.
'Lunch is ready.' She smiled engagingly.
Buchanan noticed that she'd removed her flour-dusted apron but still wore the red-and-black-checkered handkerchief on her head. Her hair must need fixing, and she didn't have time, he thought as he followed her along the sunny hallway into the kitchen.
'The pie's for supper. We don't eat big meals at lunch,' she explained. 'Jack's a fanatic about his cholesterol. I hope you like simple food.'
A steaming bowl of vegetable soup had been set at each place along with a tuna sandwich flanked by a plate of sliced celery, carrots, cauliflower, and tomatoes.
'The bread's wholewheat,' she added, 'but I can give you white if you.'
'No, wholewheat's fine,' Buchanan said and noticed that Doyle, who was already sitting at the table, seemed preoccupied by the tip of his fork.
'Did you have a good nap?' Cindy asked.
'Fine,' Buchanan said and took a chair only after she did, waiting until she dipped her spoon into the soup before he started to eat. 'Delicious.'
'Try the raw cauliflower.' Cindy pointed. 'It's supposed to help purify your system.'
'Well, mine could definitely stand some purifying,' Buchanan joked and wondered why Doyle hadn't spoken or eaten yet. Obviously something was bothering him. Buchanan decided to prompt him. 'I bet I'd still be asleep if I hadn't heard the phone.'
'Oh, I was afraid that might have happened,' Cindy said.
'Yeah.' Doyle finally spoke. 'You know how I've got the office phone rigged so if someone calls there and we're out, the call is relayed to here?'
Buchanan nodded as if that information were obvious to him, trying to maintain the fiction in front of Cindy that he'd worked for her husband these past three months.
'Well, that was someone calling the office to talk to you,' Doyle said. 'A man. I told him you wouldn't be available for a while. He said he'd call back.'
Buchanan tried hard not to show his concern. 'It was probably someone I did a job for. Maybe he's got questions about a piece of equipment I installed. Did he leave his name?'
Doyle somberly shook his head.
'Then it must
n't have been very important.' Buchanan tried to sound casual.
'That's what I thought,' Doyle said. 'By the way, after lunch I ought to go down to the office. I need to check on a couple of things. If you're feeling all right, you want to keep me company?'
Assumed Identity Page 17
