David Morrell - Assumed Identity

His head throbbing, he stood, turned on the lights in the locked compartment, felt exposed by his reflection in the window, and quickly closed the curtains. The reflected haggard face had looked unfamiliar. He opened his travel bag, took three aspirins from his toilet kit, and swallowed them with water from the tiny sink in the compartment’s utility washroom. While he urinated, he felt his mind drifting again, going back six years, and he concentrated to pay attention to now.

He needed to get into character. He had to rebecome Peter Lang. But he also had to be functional. He couldn’t keep staring off into space. After all, the whole point of going to New Orleans, of finding out why Juana had sent the postcard, was to give himself a purpose, a sense of direction.

Juana. As much as he needed to focus on reassuming the character of Peter Lang, he had to focus on Juana. She’d be- what? — thirty-one now. He wondered if she’d kept in shape. She hadn’t been tall, and she’d been thin, but her military-trained body had compensated. It had been hard and strong and magnificent. Would her thick dark hair still be as short as when he’d known her? He had wanted to run his fingers through it, to clutch it, to tug it gently. Would her dark eyes still be fiery? Would her lips still have that sensuous contour? She’d had a habit, when she’d been concentrating, of pursing those lips and sticking them out slightly, and he had wanted to stroke them as much as he’d wanted to touch her hair.

What was his true motive for going back? he wondered. Was it really just to give himself mobility?

Or had the postcard awakened something in him? He’d repressed his memories of her, just as he’d repressed so much about himself. And now. .

Maybe I shouldn’t have let her go. Maybe I should have. .

No, he thought. The past is a trap. Leave it alone. Obviously, it’s not doing you any good if it makes you catatonic. What you’re feeling is a bush-league mistake. In your former lives, you left plenty of unfinished business, a lot of people whom you liked or at least whom your assumed identities liked. But you’ve never gone back before. Be careful.

But I didn’t love those other people. Why did she send the postcard? What sort of trouble is she in?

Your controllers would have a fit if they knew what you were thinking.

The trouble is, I remember her so vividly.

Besides, I promised.

No, a warning voice told him. You didn’t promise. Peter Lang did.

Exactly. And right now, that’s who I am.

I meant what I said. I promised.

Welcoming the distraction of hunger, relieved to be in motion, Buchanan-Lang unlocked the compartment, checked the swaying corridor, saw no one, and was just about to leave when he decided that the simple lock on the compartment couldn’t be trusted. He took his small travel bag-the passport and the handgun in it-with him, secured the compartment, and proceeded toward the dining car.

It was three cars away, and when he entered it, he discovered that it was almost deserted, a few passengers sipping coffee, waiters clearing dirty dishes from the tables. The overhead lights of the dining car gleamed off the windows and made the area seem extra bright, obscuring whatever was out in the darkness.

Buchanan rubbed his aching forehead and approached the nearest waiter.

The weary-looking man anticipated his question. “Sorry, sir. We’re closed. Breakfast starts at six in the morning.”

“I’m afraid I took a nap and overslept. I’m starved. Isn’t there something you can give me so my stomach won’t growl all night?” Buchanan discreetly held out a ten-dollar bill.

“Yes, sir. I understand your problem. I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps a couple of cold roast beef sandwiches to take with you.”

“Sounds good.”

“And maybe a soda.”

“A beer would be better.”

“Well,” a voice said behind Buchanan, “I don’t have the beer. But just in case, I did plan ahead and arranged for some sandwiches.”

Refusing to show that he was surprised, Buchanan made himself wait a moment before he slowly turned to face the woman whose voice he had heard. When he saw her, he was even more careful not to show his surprise. Because he definitely was surprised.

The woman had long, dramatic flame-red hair. She was tall. In her late twenties. Athletic figure. Strong forehead. Excellent cheekbones. Fashion-model features.

He knew this woman. At least, he’d seen her before. The first time, she’d worn beige slacks and a yellow blouse. That had been in Mexico. She’d been taking photographs of him outside the jail in Merida.

The second time, she’d worn jeans and a denim shirt. That had been near Pier 66 in Fort Lauderdale. She’d been taking photographs of him while he stopped his boat next to Big Bob Bailey in the channel.

This time, she wore brown poplin slacks and a khaki safari jacket, the type with plenty of pockets, several of which had objects in them. She looked like an ad from a Land’s End catalog. A camera bag was slung over her left shoulder. The camera itself dangled from a sling around her neck. The only detail that didn’t fit the Land’s End image was the bulging paper bag in her right hand.

With her left hand, she added ten dollars to the ten that Buchanan had already given the waiter. “Thank you.” She smiled. “I didn’t think my friend would ever show up. I appreciate your patience.”

“No problem, ma’am.” The waiter pocketed the money. “If there’s anything else. .”

“Nothing, thank you.”

As the waiter went back to clearing dirty dishes from a table, the woman redirected her attention toward Buchanan. “I hope your heart wasn’t set on those roast beef sandwiches he mentioned. Mine are chicken salad.”

“I beg your pardon?” Buchanan asked.

“Chicken. .”

“That’s not what. . Do we know each other?”

“You ask that after everything we’ve been through together?” The woman’s emerald eyes twinkled.

“Lady, I’m not in the mood. I’m sure there are plenty of other guys on the train who. .”

“Okay, if you insist, we’ll play. Do we know each other?” She debated with herself. “Yes. In a manner of speaking. You could say we’re acquainted, although of course we’ve never met.” She looked amused.

“I don’t want to be rude.”

“It doesn’t matter to me. I’m used to it.”

“You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Not a drop. But I wish I had been drinking. I’m bored enough from waiting here so long. On second thought. .” She turned to the waiter. “A couple of beers sound good. Do you suppose we could still have them?”

“Certainly, ma’am. Anything else?”

“Make it four beers, and you may as well add those roast beef sandwiches. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.”

“Then maybe coffee. .?”

“No. The beers will be fine,” she said. As the waiter headed away from them, she turned again toward Buchanan. “Unless you’d prefer coffee.”

“What I’d prefer is to know what the hell you think you’re doing,” Buchanan said.

“Requesting an interview.”

“What?”

“I’m a reporter.”

“Congratulations. What’s that got to do with me?”

“I’ll make you a bet.”

Buchanan shook his head. “This is absurd.” He started to leave.

“No, really. I’ll bet I can guess your name.”

“A bet means you win or lose something. I can’t see what I win or-”

“If I can’t guess your name, I’ll leave you alone.”

Buchanan thought about it. “All right.” He sighed. “Anything to get rid of you. What’s my name?”