David Morrell - Assumed Identity

Buchanan’s heart pounded.

The operator said, “Holly McCoy left a message at five-forty-five. It says, ‘We’re staying in the same hotel. Why don’t we get together later?’ I can call her room if you like, sir.”

“No, thank you. It won’t be necessary.”

Buchanan set down the phone.

His emotions were mixed. He felt relieved that he hadn’t missed an urgent message that his superiors had tried to give him. He felt equally relieved that the message he did receive had been logged at 5:45. Before he’d returned to his room. Before he’d sat down and lost over three hours. At least he wasn’t losing touch so deeply that a phone call had failed to rouse him.

But he also felt disturbed that Holly McCoy had managed to track him to this hotel. It wasn’t just her annoying persistence that troubled him, her relentless pressure. It was something further. How had she found him? Was she so determined that she’d telephoned every one of the hundreds of hotels in the area and asked for. .?

When I made the reservation, I should have used a different name.

Hey, using different names is what got you into this. If Holly McCoy found out that you used an alias to register, then she’d really be suspicious. Besides, if you’d used an unauthorized false name to register, your superiors would have wondered what on earth you thought you were doing? You’re supposed to be on R and R, not on a mission.

But that’s exactly what Buchanan was on, a mission, and the rendezvous time was almost upon him. He had to get to Cafe du Monde by eleven o’clock. That was when he and Juana had arrived there six years ago.

Tonight. After making sure that his pistol was covered by his gray sport coat and securely braced behind his belt, at his spine, he opened the door, checked the hallway, locked his room, and went quickly down the fire stairs.

The night was eerily similar to the one six years ago. For example, as Buchanan left the hotel, he noticed that the air was balmy with the hint of rain, a pleasant breeze coming in from the Mississippi. The same as before.

He took care to make sure that Holly McCoy wasn’t in sight, but as he walked along Tchoupitoulas Street, restraining his pace so he wouldn’t attract attention, another parallel between tonight and six years before became disconcertingly obvious. It was Halloween. Many pedestrians he passed wore costumes, and again similar to six years before, the most popular costume seemed to be a skeleton: a black tight-fitting garment with the phosphorescent images of bones painted on it and a head mask highlighted with white, representing a skull. With so many people resembling one another, he couldn’t tell if he was being followed. More, all Holly McCoy needed to do to disguise her conspicuous red hair was to wear a head mask. By contrast, on this night, he looked conspicuous, since he was one of the minority who weren’t wearing a costume of some sort.

As he crossed Canal Street toward the French Quarter, he began to hear music, faint, then distinct, the increasing throb and wail of jazz. A while ago, he’d read in a newspaper that New Orleans had instituted a noise ordinance, but tonight no one seemed to care. Street bands competed with those in bars. Dixieland, the blues-these and many other styles pulsed along the French Quarter’s narrow, crowded streets as costumed revelers danced, sang, and drank in celebration of the night of the dead.

. . gone and left me.

When the saints. .

Buchanan tried to lose himself in the crowd. He had less than an hour before he was supposed to be at Cafe du Monde, and he wanted to use that hour to guarantee that his meeting with Juana would not be observed.

As he headed up Bienville Street and then along Royal Street, then up Conti to Bourbon Street, he felt frustrated by the density of the crowd. It prevented him from moving as fast as he wanted, from taking advantage of opportunities to duck into a courtyard or down a side street. Every time he attempted an evasion tactic, a group would suddenly loom in front of him, and anyone who followed would not have trouble keeping up with him while blending with the festivities. He bought a devil’s mask from a sidewalk vendor and immediately found that it restricted his vision so much that he bumped into people, making him feel vulnerable and self-conscious. He took it off, glanced at his watch, and was amazed to discover how much his concentration had compressed the time. It was almost eleven. He had to get to the rendezvous site.

Soon, he thought. Soon he would put his arms around Juana. Soon he’d be able to find out why she needed him. He’d help her. He’d show her how much he loved her. He’d correct the mistake he’d made six years ago.

Who had made?

Coming down Orleans Avenue, he reached the shadows of St. Anthony’s Garden. From there, he took Pirate’s Alley down to Jackson Square. Its huge bronze statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback rose ghostlike from the darkness of the gardens in the locked, deserted park. Using one of the walkways that flanked the wrought-iron fence of the square, he at last reached Decatur Street and paused in the shadows next to the square while he studied his destination.

Where he stood was surprisingly free of the congestion and noise of the rest of the French Quarter. He felt apart from things, more vulnerable. Several glances behind him gave him the assurance of being alone.

And yet he felt threatened. Again he studied his destination. At last, he stepped into view, felt as if he had reentered the world, crossed Decatur, and made his approach toward Cafe du Monde.

It was a large concrete building whose distinctive feature was that its walls were composed of tall, wide archways that made the restaurant open-air. During heavy rains, the interior could be protected by lowering green-and-white-striped canvas, but usually-and tonight was no exception-the only thing that separated people on the street from the restaurant’s patrons were waist-high iron railings. Tonight, the same as six years ago, the place was crowded more than usual. Because of the holiday. Because of Halloween. Expectant customers, many of them in costume, stood in a line on the sidewalk, waiting to be admitted.

Buchanan strained to catch a glimpse of Juana, hoping that the crowd would have made her decide to wait outside for him. He and Juana would be able to get away from the noise and confusion. He would lovingly put his arm around her and try to find a quiet place. He would get her to tell him what terrible urgency had made her send the postcard, allowing him a second chance.

There was an addition to the restaurant. Smaller than the main section, it had a green-and-white roof supported by widely separated slender white poles that made this part of the restaurant seem even more open-air. He stared past the low metal railing toward the customers close together around small circular tables. The place rippled with constant movement. Hundreds of conversations rushed over him.

Juana. He strained harder to see her. He shifted position to view the interior of the restaurant from a different angle. He scanned the line of waiting customers.

What if she’s wearing a costume? he thought. What if she’s afraid to the point that she put on a disguise? He wouldn’t be able to recognize her. And she might not hurry to meet him. She might be so terrified that she had to assess everyone around him before she revealed herself.

Juana. Even if she wasn’t wearing a costume, how could he be certain he would recognize her? Six years had passed. She might have grown her hair long. She might have. .

And what about him? How had his appearance, like his identities, changed in six years? Was his hair dyed the same color? Did he weigh the same? Should he have a mustache? He couldn’t remember if Peter Lang had worn a mustache. Did-?