David Morrell - Assumed Identity

Bailey suddenly looked with suspicion toward the interrogator.

The interrogator grasped Bailey’s arm. “The prisoner is obviously delirious. We must allow him to rest. While you sign this document in the outer office, I will see that he gets medical attention.”

Hesitant, Bailey allowed the interrogator to turn him toward the door.

“Sure,” Buchanan said. “Medical attention. What he means is another whack with that rubber hose because I made you realize how much trouble you’re in. Think, Bailey. You admitted you were drunk. Why won’t you admit that there’s every chance I’m not the man you saw in Cancun?”

“I have had enough of this.” The interrogator jabbed Buchanan’s injured shoulder. “Any fool can see that you are guilty. How do you explain this bullet wound?”

Writhing in pain against the pressure of the ropes that bound him to the chair, Buchanan spoke through gritted teeth. “It’s not a bullet wound.”

“But the doctor said-”

“How would he know what caused it? He didn’t do tests to look for gunpowder in the wound. All he did was restitch it.” Buchanan grimaced. “I got this injury and the one on my skull in a boating accident.” Light-headedness again overcame him. He feared he’d pass out before he could finish. “I fell off my client’s yacht as we left port. My skull hit the hull. . One of the propellers cut my shoulder. . Lucky I didn’t get killed.”

“This is a fantasy,” the interrogator said.

“Right.” Buchanan swallowed. “Prove it. Prove I’m lying. For God’s sake, do what I’ve been begging you to do. Bring my client here. Ask him if he knows me. Ask if he can explain how I hurt myself.”

“Yeah, maybe that ain’t a bad idea,” Bailey said.

“ What? ” The interrogator jerked toward the beefy Texan. “Are you telling me that the description you gave in Cancun, that the drawing on this police sketch- which you helped prepare- does not match the prisoner? Are you telling me that the identification you made five minutes ago. .?”

“All I said was he looks like the man I saw.” Pensive, Bailey rubbed a callused large fist against his beard-stubbled chin. “Now I ain’t so sure. My memory’s fadin’. I need time to think. This is pretty serious business.”

“Anybody can make a mistake,” Buchanan said. “Your word against mine. That’s all this is until we get my client to vouch for me.”

Bailey narrowed his eyes toward the bloody urine on the floor. “I ain’t signin’ nothin’ till this man’s client proves I’m right or wrong.”

Jubilant despite his pain, Buchanan managed to squeeze out a few more words. “Charles Maxwell. His yacht’s moored near the Columbus dock in Cancun.”

With that, Buchanan gave in to the dizziness that insisted. He’d done everything possible. Drifting, he heard the interrogator and Big Bob Bailey exchanging angry words.

He was taken back to his cell. Staggering across it, trying not to bump into the other prisoners and cause an incident, he noticed that many of the faces scowling at him were different from those who had scowled at him when he’d first arrived, however long ago that was. His weary guess was that new drunks had replaced those who’d sobered but that the thieves and other predators had been left here until somebody got motivated enough to take the trouble to put them on trial. He knew that in his weakened condition it wouldn’t be long before the predators moved against him, so he found a space against a wall and sat, straining to remain awake, staring in response to their stares, hiding his pain, calculating how best to defend himself. He didn’t realize right away that two guards had unlocked the cell and were gesturing for him to come out.

They didn’t take him toward the interrogation room, however. Instead they took him in the opposite direction, toward a section of the jail that he hadn’t seen.

What now? Is this when I disappear?

The guards opened a door, and Buchanan blinked in confusion. He’d expected the interrogator, but what he faced was a sink, a toilet, and a shower stall. He was told to strip, bathe, shave, and put on the white cotton shirt and pants that were stacked on a chair along with a pair of cheap rubber sandals. Confused, he obeyed, the lukewarm water not only making him feel welcomely clean but bolstering his meager energy. The guards stood watch. Later, as Buchanan finished dressing, another guard came in and set a tray upon the sink. Buchanan was astonished. The tray held a plate of refried beans and tortillas, the first food that he had received since he’d been brought here. Weakness and pain had stifled his appetite, but he didn’t need any encouragement to grab something else that was on the tray. A bottle of purified water. In a rush, he broke the seal, unscrewed the cap, and swallowed several large mouthfuls. Not too much. You’ll get sick.

He studied the food, the aroma of which both attracted and repelled him. The food might be contaminated, he thought, the shower and the fresh clothes a trick to make him ignore his suspicion and eat. But I have to take the risk. Even if my stomach doesn’t want it, I’ve got to force myself to eat.

Again he reminded himself, Not too much at once. It took him a long time to chew and swallow the first mouthful of beans. When his stomach didn’t revolt, he was encouraged to drink more water and bite off a piece of tortilla.

He never was able to finish the meal. Holding his spoon in his right hand, he almost dropped it because his fingers began to twitch again, alarmingly. When he switched the spoon to his left hand but before he could raise more food, another guard arrived, and the four of them, looking somber, took him past his crowded cell, toward the interrogation rooms. Why? Buchanan thought. Why would they let me clean up and give me something to eat if they’re planning to give me another session with the rubber hose? That doesn’t make sense. Unless. .

The guards escorted him into a room that Buchanan had never seen, a dingy, cluttered office in which the interrogator sat stiffly behind his desk and faced a stern, pinch-lipped American who sat with equal stiffness across from him. When Buchanan appeared, each man directed a narrow gaze at him, and Buchanan’s hidden elation at the hope that he might be released turned into abrupt suspicion.

The American was in his middle forties, of middle height and weight, with a pointed chin, a slender nose, and thick dark eyebrows that contrasted with his thinning sun-bleached hair. He was deeply tanned and wore an expensive tropical-blend blue suit with a red-striped silk tie and a gleaming white shirt that not only accentuated his tan but seemed to reflect it. He wore a Harvard ring, a Piaget watch, and Cole-Haan shoes. Distinguished. Impressive. A man to have on your side.

The trouble was that Buchanan had no idea who the man was. He didn’t dare assume that the interrogator had responded to his demand and contacted his alibi, Charles Maxwell. The emergency alibi had been established hastily. Normally, every detail of a plan was checked many times, but in this case, Buchanan didn’t know what on earth Maxwell looked like. It was reasonable to assume that Maxwell, having been contacted, would come here to support Buchanan’s claims. But what if the interrogator had found an American to impersonate Maxwell? What if the interrogator wanted to trick Buchanan into pretending to know the American and thus prove that Buchanan was lying about his alibi?

The American stood expectantly.

Buchanan had to react. He couldn’t just keep peering blankly. If this really was Maxwell, the interrogator would expect Buchanan to show grateful recognition. But what if this wasn’t Maxwell?