David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“He loves you very much.”

“Sure.”

“He told me that several times. He told me how proud he was of you, the way you put up with being married to him when he was in the service and how you stonewalled those reporters.”

She chuckled slightly, then sniffled. “Yeah, I was tough. The good times. Except Jack was gone so much then, and now that we’re together. .”

“Right. You just said it. You’re together. And you don’t need me around to make a crowd. In a few minutes, I’ll be on my way.”

“Take my car.”

Buchanan cocked his head in surprise.

“I get the feeling you’ll be needing it.” She touched his hand. “ I sure won’t. I haven’t driven it since before I was in the hospital this last time. Take it. Please.”

“I’ll get it back to you when I’m settled.”

“There isn’t any rush, believe me.”

“Cindy?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Buchanan leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek, his lips salty from her tears. “Take care.”

“I always tried to. Didn’t do me any good, though. You take care.”

“I’ll have to.” He stood from beside the bed. “Maybe sometime I’ll be back this way.”

She didn’t respond.

“I’d better let you get some sleep.” Buchanan touched her cheek, then backed from the room and closed the door.

Doyle sat, playing solitaire at the kitchen table. He didn’t look up when Buchanan entered the room. “I overheard.”

“And?”

“Thanks. Friends mean a lot. These days, she doesn’t have too many. Most of them ran when they found out how sick she was. They didn’t know enough to say what you just did to Cindy.”

“What was that?”

“‘I’m sorry.’” Doyle looked up from the cards. “Cindy’s right. I think it’s a good idea to take her car instead of my van. Less conspicuous. When you’re done with it, just let me know where to pick it up. And this is another good idea.” Doyle reached under the table, where there must have been a bracket-because when his hand reappeared, it held a Beretta 9-mm pistol.

Buchanan glanced toward the windows. The blinds were pulled, so no one outside could see the weapon. But he was still wary of possible hidden microphones. Instead of talking, he shook his head in refusal.

Doyle mouthed, WHY NOT?

Buchanan picked up a notepad on the counter and wrote: WHAT IF I HAD TO DUMP IT?

Doyle took the pen and wrote on the notepad: I TOOK IT FROM A DEAD SOLDIER IN PANAMA. IT CAN’T BE LINKED TO ME.

Buchanan studied Doyle, then nodded. He removed the magazine to make sure it was loaded, reinserted the magazine, worked the slide back and forth to chamber a round, lowered the hammer, then stuck the weapon beneath his belt, at his spine, and covered it by putting on a dark brown nylon windbreaker that he’d borrowed from Doyle.

Doyle assessed the effect. “Fits you perfect.”

Buchanan glanced toward the clock on the stove: 8:25. Bailey was due to call in five minutes. Doyle shrugged as if to say, Be patient. Self-conscious because the kitchen might be bugged, neither man spoke. Doyle ripped up the sheet of paper, burned the pieces in a saucer, and washed the ashes down the sink, more for something to do, it seemed, than for the sake of destroying an incriminating object. Then he returned to his game of solitaire, appearing to understand that Buchanan needed to focus his mind and not clutter it with small talk.

Eight-thirty. Buchanan kept staring toward the phone. Five minutes passed. Then ten. His head began to throb. At last, at quarter to nine, the phone rang.

Buchanan grabbed it before the noise could wake Cindy.

“There’s a minimall near you on Pine Island Road. A couple of blocks from Sunrise Boulevard,” Bailey’s crusty voice said.

“I know the place. I’ve driven past it.”

“Go over to the pizza joint. Stand to the right of the entrance. Be there at nine. Come alone.”

Before Buchanan could acknowledge the message, Bailey hung up.

Buchanan frowned and turned to Doyle. “Got to run an errand.”

“The keys to the car are in that drawer.”

“Thanks.” Buchanan shook his hand.

That was all the sentiment Buchanan could allow. He took the keys, lifted his suitcase, grabbed a small red picnic cooler off the counter, and nodded as Doyle opened the door for him.

Ninety seconds later, he was driving away.

The small red picnic cooler contained an apple and two bologna sandwiches on a white plastic tray. A lower tray contained ice cubes. Beneath that tray was a hundred thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. In the dark, driving, Buchanan glanced toward the cooler on the seat beside him. Then he checked for headlights in his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed.

He’d received the cooler and the money in it that afternoon while he was parked at a stoplight on his way back to Doyle’s. The money was in response to a call that he’d made from a pay phone immediately after returning from his conversation with Bailey. The colonel had told Buchanan to wait at the Bon Voyage office until three o’clock and, when he drove away, to leave his passenger window open. At the stoplight, a motorcyclist had paused, pushed the cooler through the open window, and driven on.

Now, his pulse quickening, Buchanan parked at the crowded minimall on Pine Island Road. Beneath hissing sodium lights, he carried the picnic cooler to the pizza shop and stood to the right of the entrance. Customers went in and out. A delivery boy drove hurriedly away. Scanning the night, Buchanan waited. This time, Bailey made contact exactly when he’d said he would.

“Is your name Grant?” a voice asked.

Buchanan turned toward the open door to the pizza shop, seeing a gangly, pimply-faced young man wearing a white apron streaked with sauce.

“That’s right.”

“A guy just called inside. Said he was a friend of yours. Said you’d give me five bucks if I relayed a message.”

“My friend was right.” Buchanan gave the kid the five dollars. “What’s the message?”

“He said you’re supposed to meet him in twenty minutes in the lobby of the Tower Hotel.”

Buchanan squinted. “The Tower Hotel? Where’s that?”

“The east end of Broward Boulevard. Near Victoria Park Road.”

Buchanan nodded and walked quickly toward his car, realizing what was ahead of him. Bailey-afraid that he’d be in danger when he showed himself to get the money-intended to shunt Buchanan to various places throughout the city, carefully watching each potential meeting site for any indication that Buchanan had not come alone.

Bailey’s instincts were good, Buchanan thought as he checked a map in his car and steered from the minimall, heading toward his next destination. The truth was, Buchanan did have a team keeping track of him. Their mission was to follow Bailey after the money was handed over and to try to find where he was keeping the videotape, the photographs, and the negatives, especially the ones depicting Buchanan on the yacht with the colonel, the major, and the captain. The colonel had been very emphatic about that point when he’d hastily returned Buchanan’s phone call. The images of Buchanan with the colonel had to be destroyed.

As Buchanan headed east on Broward Boulevard, he again glanced in his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed. He looked for Bailey, not the team that was keeping track of him, for there was no way he could spot the team, he knew. They had a way to follow him and later Bailey that permitted them to stay far back, out of visual contact, and that method was the reason Bailey’s protective tactic, no matter how shrewd, wouldn’t work. Bailey would never see the team at any of the potential rendezvous sites. He could never possibly detect the team as they followed him after he received the money. No matter what evasion procedures he attempted, he would not be able to elude them.