Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  Holly followed him from the gift shop. “I’ve got a few things to show you.”

  “Not interested.” He stopped at a water fountain, swallowed three Tylenol, wiped water from his mouth, and headed toward the exit. “What does interest me is getting my belongings back.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Holly.” He pivoted sharply toward her. “Let’s pretend I am the kind of person you think I am. What do you suppose would happen to you if told the people I work for that you had a false passport with my picture in it? How long do you think you’d get to walk around with it?”

  Her emerald eyes became more intense. “Then you didn’t tell them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wondered if you would. I doubted it. You don’t want your superiors knowing you had that passport—and lost it. What did you want it for in the first place?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? So I’d be able to leave the country.”

  “Is there something wrong with using your own passport?”

  “Yeah.” Buchanan scanned the people near the exit. “I don’t have one. I’ve never been issued one.”

  They reached the noisy street. Again the glare of the sun stabbed his eyes. “Where’s your friend? Ted. The guy on the train. It’s my guess you don’t go anywhere without him.”

  “He’s nearby, looking out for my welfare.”

  “Using a two-way radio? I won’t keep talking with you unless you prove to me this conversation isn’t being recorded.”

  She opened her purse. “See? No radio.”

  “And my belongings aren’t in there, either. Where’d you put them?”

  “They’re safe.”

  In front of the hospital, a man and a woman got out of a taxi. Buchanan hurried to get in after they walked toward the lobby.

  Holly scrambled in after him.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” Buchanan said.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  “Holiday Inn–Crowne Plaza.”

  As the taxi pulled from the curb, Buchanan turned to Holly. “This is not the game you seem to think it is. I want my belongings returned to me. Give me the key to your room. I’ll get what’s mine, pack your things, and check you out.”

  “What makes you think I want to leave the hotel?”

  Buchanan leaned close. “Because you do not want to be seen near me. Don’t ask me to be more explicit. This is as plain as I can make it.”

  “You’re trying to scare me again.”

  “You bet, and lady, I hope I’m succeeding.”

  6

  “Close enough,” Buchanan told the driver.

  “But we got another two blocks, suh.”

  “This is fine. Take the lady for a drive. Be back on this corner in thirty minutes.” Buchanan stared at Holly. “The key to your room.” He held out his hand.

  “You’re really serious.”

  “The key.”

  Holly gave it to him. “Lighten up. Your belongings, as you call them, aren’t in my room anyhow.”

  “Where are they? In Ted’s room?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I mean it, Holly. Neither you nor your friend wants to be found with my things in their possession. It wouldn’t be healthy for you.”

  Her face changed color slightly, paling, as if he was finally getting his message across. “What do I get in return?”

  “Peace of mind.”

  “Not good enough,” Holly said.

  “What do you want?”

  “The chance to keep talking with you.”

  “I told you, I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  Holly studied him. “Yes. All right. They’re in Ted’s room.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a key to it.”

  “As a matter of fact.” She handed it to him. “In case I needed to get your belongings and Ted wasn’t around.”

  “You just did a very smart thing.” Buchanan got out of the taxi.

  “Be careful when you pack my underwear. It’s expensive. I don’t want the lace torn.”

  Buchanan stared at her and shut the door.

  7

  The two blocks felt like two miles. Along the way, Buchanan unwrapped the bandage from around his skull and shoved it into a trash can. By the time he reached the Crowne Plaza, he felt light-headed, his brow filmed with sweat. His only consolation was that as he entered the softly lit lobby, escaping the hammer force of the sun, his headache felt slightly less severe.

  Rather than go directly up to Ted’s room and then Holly’s, he decided he’d first better learn if he had any messages. He checked the lobby to see if anybody showed any interest in him.

  There. In the corner on the right next to the entrance. A man, late twenties, in a blue seersucker suit. Sitting in a lounge chair. Reading a newspaper.

  The well-built man was in a perfect position to see people coming into the lobby before they had a chance to notice him. The man’s glance in Buchanan’s direction was ever so brief but ever so intense. And like a good operative, the man gave no sign that he recognized Buchanan.

  So they staked out the hotel, Buchanan thought.

  But it isn’t me they’re looking for.

  No. The person they’re looking for is Holly.

  Showing no indication that the man in the corner interested him, Buchanan went over to the front desk, waited while a clerk took care of a guest, and then stepped forward.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Are there any messages for me? My room number’s . . .”

  The clerk smiled, waiting.

  “My room number’s . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “. . . Damn.” Buchanan’s pulse raced. “I can’t remember what it is. I left my key here at the desk when I went out, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you the number on it.”

  “No problem, sir. All you have to do is give me your name. The computer will match the name with your room number.”

  “Victor Grant,” Buchanan said automatically.

  The clerk tapped some letters on a computer keyboard, hummed, and studied the screen. He began to frown. “Sorry, sir. No one by that name is registered here.”

  “Victor Grant. There must be.”

  “No, sir.”

  Jesus, Buchanan suddenly realized. “Brendan Buchanan. I gave you the wrong name.”

  “Wrong name? What do you mean, sir?”

  “I’m an actor. We’re making a movie in town. My character’s name is Victor Grant. I’m so used to responding to that name I . . . If I’m into my character that much, I ought to win an Oscar.”

  “What kind of movie is it, sir?”

  “Did you ever see The Big Easy? ”

  “Of course, sir. I see all the films made in New Orleans.”

  “Well, this is the sequel.”

  “I have it now, sir. Brendan Buchanan. Room twelve fourteen. And no, there aren’t any messages.”

  “Could I have my key, please?”

  The clerk complied. “What other movies have you been in?”

  “None. Until now, I’ve worked on the stage. This is my big break. Thanks.”

  Buchanan walked toward the elevator. He pressed the button and gazed straight ahead, waiting for the doors to open, certain that the clerk was staring toward him. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

  Victor Grant? You’re losing it, buddy. When you left the hospital, you made the same mistake. You told the nurse you were . . .

  No. That was a different mistake. You told the nurse you were Peter Lang. Now you say you’re . . .

  You can’t even keep the names consistent.

  His head ached. It wouldn’t stop aching.

  The doors at last opened. Inside, alone, as the elevator rose, Buchanan sagged against a wall, wiping sweat from his forehead, wondering if he was going to be sick.

  Can’t. I have to keep moving.

  He had no intention of going to his room. The only reason he’d approached the desk clerk was that he need
ed to find out if he’d received any messages. The fact that at the start of the conversation he hadn’t been able to recall his room number terrified him.

  Two floors above his own, he got off the elevator and used the key that Holly had given him to open Ted’s door. It took him less than five minutes to find the gun and Victor Grant’s passport where Ted had hidden them under the mattress.

  Victor Grant. Buchanan stared at the photograph in the passport. He was tempted to tear the document to pieces and burn it in the sink. That would solve one problem. There’d be one less piece of evidence linking him to a past identity. But what he’d told Holly was true. He’d hung on to the passport in case he needed to get out of the country. And the way things were developing, he might still have a need to do that.

  Victor Grant.

  Peter Lang.

  Brendan Buchanan.

  Pick one, damn it. Be consistent.

  What are you here for?

  Juana.

  Where was she last night? Why did somebody stab me? Was somebody trying to stop me from helping . . . ?

  Pay attention. What are you going to do?

  Hell, who am I going to be?

  Holly. He still had to deal with . . .

  He looked in a closet and found a brown sport coat that Ted had left. Although Ted had broader shoulders, the garment fit Buchanan better than he expected. He shoved the passport into one of its pockets and the gun behind his belt, at the spine, making sure that the jacket covered it. When he left the room, no one noticed.

  Now for Holly’s room.

  It was two doors down, and as Buchanan approached it, he kept thinking about the man in the seersucker suit in the lobby. If they staked out the hotel, isn’t it logical that they’d put someone in Holly’s room to grab her when she came in? Maybe I ought to stay out of this. Maybe the smart thing to do is keep walking toward the elevator. Let Holly check herself out of the hotel, or let Ted do it for her. Now that I’ve got the gun and the passport, why should I care about . . . ?

  Buchanan slowed, thinking, The longer Holly waits, the greater the odds that someone will be in her room when she comes back.

  So what? That still isn’t your concern. If something happened to her, it’d be one less thing for you to worry about. One less . . .

  He pivoted, knocked on her door, announced, “Hotel housekeeping,” knocked again, and unlocked the door.

  The room was empty. It took him even less time to pack her things than it had for him to find the gun and the passport in Ted’s room. He took care only when he put her underwear into her suitcase. What Holly had said was true. It was expensive, and it did have lace. He liked the feel of it.

  She would have been required to leave a credit-card number when she checked in. He found an early-checkout form on the counter beside the television, filled it out, and left it on the bed, pleased that she hadn’t brought much luggage as he carried the two bags down the fire stairs and out a service exit, all the while thinking of the lace on the underwear he’d packed. It had been a long time since he’d felt intimate with a woman. Not had sex with but felt intimate with. As long as six years ago.

  And Juana.

  8

  Exertion, combined with the glaring sun, squeezed sweat from him. The stitches in his right side, the tenderness of his wound, required him to carry one bag in his left hand, the other wedged under his left arm. Exhaust fumes from passing cars aggravated his headache and made him nauseous.

  At least the taxi was waiting as promised. When the driver saw that Buchanan was having trouble with the bags, he got out. “Here, let me help, suh.”

  “Thanks.” Buchanan gave him ten dollars, then turned his attention toward Holly and someone else sitting in the backseat.

  He frowned.

  While the driver carried the bags toward the trunk, Buchanan got in the backseat, next to a square-faced man who was built like a college football player gone to seed. “Well, Ted, long time no see.”

  From the opposite side, Holly leaned forward. “I figured he might as well travel with us instead of keep following in another taxi. We picked him up while you were gone.”

  “Ted, I appreciate the help with the bags.”

  “What help?”

  “My point exactly.”

  “You should have asked.”

  “I shouldn’t have needed to.”

  “Just like you didn’t feel you needed to ask my permission to go into my room. I don’t like the idea of someone rummaging through my stuff. And that’s my jacket you’re wearing.”

  “Very observant. So what do you think, Ted? Doesn’t fit me too bad, huh? Here’s your key back.”

  Holly tried to distract them. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Right away. Ted isn’t very good at this.”

  “Hey,” Ted said.

  “All right, I can understand why you’re angry,” Holly said. “When I saw you coming, I should have helped with the bags. I knew you’d just been released from the hospital. I’d have gotten out to help a friend.”

  “Well, this guy isn’t a friend,” Ted said.

  “Ted,” Holly said in warning. She turned to Buchanan. “Look, I’m sorry. Remember, it was your idea to check me out of that hotel. If you want to go in for melodramatic gestures to try to scare me, you can’t expect me to cooperate in the tactic.”

  “Then maybe we ought to go back so I could introduce you to the fellow waiting for you in the lobby.”

  Holly’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a joke, right?”

  “He didn’t look like he had a sense of humor.”

  “This is all bullshit,” Ted said.

  “Right, Ted. Bullshit,” Buchanan said. “I don’t care what happens to you, but until Holly and I get some issues settled, I’d just as soon she stayed in good health.”

  “Quit trying to scare me,” Holly said.

  “Where to, suh?” The driver had gotten back into the taxi and was waiting.

  “That errand wore me out.” Buchanan rubbed his sweaty forehead. “I came here to enjoy the sights. I think a river cruise would relax me. Why don’t you take us over to Toulouse Street Wharf? It’s almost two-thirty. Maybe we’ve still got time to get on the Natchez.”

  As the taxi pulled into traffic, Holly said. “For a man who claims he was never in New Orleans before, you certainly know a lot about the tourist attractions.”

  “I studied them in a guidebook.”

  “Right. When was that? When you were unconscious?”

  9

  As its calliope whistled “Way Down South in Dixie,” the colorfully trimmed paddlewheeler eased away from the wharf and began its tour along the Mississippi. Hundreds of passengers crowded the railings on the three decks, enjoying the breeze off the river, studying the docks they passed, warehouses, a refinery, a War of 1812 battlefield, and a pre–Civil War plantation mansion.

  While the passengers seemed to enjoy the strength of the sun, Buchanan’s eyes were still sufficiently sensitive that he stayed in the shadow of a canopy at the stern. Holly sat next to him. Since most passengers were at the railing, there was little chance that their conversation would be overheard.

  Holly shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why a steamboat cruise?”

  “Process of elimination.” Buchanan sipped from one of the Cokes that he’d bought for Holly and himself when they came aboard. “I need time to think, a place to think.” After swallowing two more Tylenol, he shut his eyes and tilted his head back.

  “You should have stayed in the hospital longer.”

  “Too much to do,” Buchanan said.

  “Yeah, like watching the muddy Mississippi. Ted didn’t like it when you made him stay behind with my bags.”

  “You said you wanted to talk. The thing is, I don’t want company while we’re doing it. This way, he can’t follow. And pretty soon, we’ll be far enough that those two-way radios you mentioned won’t be able to communicate with each other. By the way, where are you h
iding yours? In your purse? Or maybe . . . ?” Buchanan gestured toward the open neckline of her dress.

  “Okay.” Sounding discouraged, she reached inside her dress, unhooked a tiny microphone and miniature transmitter from her bra strap, and handed it to him. “You win.”

  “Too easy.” Buchanan shut the transmitter off, feeling her body heat on the metal. “How do I know there aren’t others?”

  “There’s only one way to be sure. But if I wouldn’t let you search me in your train compartment, I’m certainly not . . .”

  “What did you want to talk about?”

  “For starters, who do you think tried to kill you? And please, don’t give me that guff about a walk-by random stabbing.”

  “Who? Yes, that’s the big question, isn’t it?”

  “One of them.”

  The issue had been preoccupying Buchanan since he’d wakened in the hospital. If he addressed it out loud, he’d also be distracting Holly from his role in Scotch and Soda. “Open your purse.”

  She did.

  He didn’t find a tape recorder.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you this much. I wasn’t lying when I said I came to New Orleans to see a friend.” He debated whether to continue. “A woman.” He thought about it. “None of this is classified. I don’t see any reason not to . . . It’s been six years since I heard from her, but recently she sent me a message that she needed help. My friend is very independent. She’s definitely not the type to ask for help unless the problem’s serious.”

  “This friend, was she your lover?”

  “Are you a reporter or a gossip columnist? I ought to tell you that’s none of your business.”

  Holly waited.

  Buchanan bit his lower lip. “Could have been my lover. Maybe should have been. Maybe we’d have gotten married.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “Well, let’s just say I was having some problems figuring out who I was.” Past tense? Buchanan asked himself. “Anyway, I was supposed to meet her last night, eleven o’clock, at Café du Monde. She didn’t show up. But that guy did with his knife.” Leaning back in the deck chair, feeling his handgun behind his belt and against his spine, Buchanan suddenly realized that the only reason his wound hadn’t been more serious was that the gun had deflected the blade. As he appreciated how close he’d come to dying, he started sweating again.