David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“. . Peter Lang.” He exhaled.

“Nope. Wrong answer. Your wallet-which the mugger didn’t manage to get, by the way-indicates that your name is. .”

“Brendan Buchanan.”

“Better,” the doctor said. “Much better. So let’s be clear. What’s your name?”

“. . Brendan Buchanan.”

“Then why did you say your name was Peter Lang?”

“. . A friend of mine. Have to tell him what happened to me.”

“Ms. McCoy can make your phone calls for you. You had me worried for a moment. I was afraid the concussion was more severe than your CAT scan indicated.”

Didn’t get my wallet? To know that, the police must have searched me. They must have found the gun.

And the passport, too! Maybe this doctor expected me to call myself Victor Grant.

A nurse had been taking his blood pressure. “One fifteen over seventy-five.”

The doctor nodded with approval. “Try to open your eyes as wide as you can. I need to shine this light at your pupils. Good. Now follow the movement of my hand. Bear with me while I tap at your joints. I have to draw the end of this hammer along the bottoms of your feet. Fine. Your reflexes don’t seem impaired. Your lungs sound normal. Your heartbeat is strong and regular. I’m encouraged. Try to rest. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“I’ll keep him company.” Holly gave Buchanan another sip of water.

“As long as he rests. I don’t want him talking a lot. On the other hand, I don’t want him sleeping a lot, either. Not until I’m sure he’s out of danger.”

“I understand. I’ll just be here to reassure him,” Holly said.

“TLC never hurts.” The doctor started to leave, then looked back. “You’ve certainly been having your share of injuries, Mr. Buchanan. What caused the wound to your shoulder?”

“. . Uh. It. .”

“A boating accident,” Holly said. “The edge of a propeller.”

“It’s a good thing you’ve got medical insurance,” the doctor said.

Tense. Buchanan waited for the doctor and the nurse to leave, then slowly turned his head and stared at Holly.

She smiled engagingly. “You want more water?”

“. . What’s going on?”

“You know, when I was a little girl, I couldn’t decide whether to be a nurse or a reporter. Now I’m getting to be both.”

Buchanan breathed with effort, his voice a gravelly whisper. “What happened? How did. .?”

“Save your strength. Last night, I followed you from the hotel.”

“How did you know where I was staying?”

“That’s confidential. Rest, I told you. I’ll do the talking. I figured you had to leave the hotel sometime, so I waited across the street. There’s no back exit, except for the service doors. But I didn’t think you’d draw attention to yourself by making the staff wonder why you’d use a service door, so it seemed to me the best bet was the front. Mind you, I did have Ted-you remember Ted, from the train-watching the back. He and I were linked by two-way radios. When you came out, I was just one of several people wearing costumes. Otherwise, this red hair would have been a giveaway. You didn’t notice when I followed you.”

Buchanan breathed. “Ought to dye it.”

“What?”

“Your hair. For following people. Change the color to something bland.”

“Never. But I guess you’ve changed the color of your hair often enough.”

He didn’t respond.

Holly gave him another sip of water. “By the way, was my answer right? When the doctor asked how you got the wound to your shoulder? A boating accident? When you were Victor Grant, isn’t that what you told the Mexican police?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure.”

His eyelids felt heavy.

Where does she get her information? he thought.

“Confidential,” she said.

“What?”

“You asked where I got my information. That’s confidential.”

I did? I asked her that out loud?

He couldn’t keep his eyes open.

The doctor pointed at the uneaten tuna sandwich. “Your lack of appetite worries me.”

“Hospital food. I never liked it. I can smell all the other meals that were on the cart.”

“Mr. Lang. .”

“Buchanan.”

“Right. Mr. Buchanan. I just wanted to be sure. If you want to get out of here, you’re going to have to satisfy my slightest concern about your concussion. If I were you, I’d eat that meal, and then I’d ask the nurse to get me another.”

Buchanan mustered the strength to reach for the sandwich.

“Here, I’ll give you a hand,” Holly said.

“I think the doctor wants to see if I can do it by myself.”

“You’re a student of human nature,” the doctor said. “After you’ve enjoyed your meal, I want you out of bed and walking around a little. To the bathroom, for example. I need to be satisfied that your legs and the rest of you are all in working order.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a slave driver?”

The black doctor raised his eyebrows. “You’re getting better if you can make jokes. I’ll be back to examine you after lunch.”

The moment the doctor left, Buchanan set down the tuna sandwich. He glanced at Holly. “I don’t suppose you’d eat this for me. Or dump it somewhere and make it look as if I finished everything.”

“Do the manly thing and eat it yourself if you want to get out of here.” Holly’s emerald eyes gleamed with mischievousness.

“How do you get your eyes that color? Tinted contact lenses?”

“French eye drops. A lot of movie stars use them. The drops emphasize the color of their eyes. It’s a trick I learned when I was working in Los Angeles. Come to think of it, you’d find the trick handy. For when you’re altering your appearance. You wouldn’t have to fool around with those tinted contact lenses you mentioned.”

“Why would I want to alter my appearance?”

She sounded exasperated. “You don’t give up.”

“Neither do you. Last night. What happened? You didn’t finish telling me.”

“I followed you through the French Quarter and over to Cafe du Monde. By then, it was eleven o’clock. You seemed to be looking for somebody. In fact, you were looking pretty hard.”

“An old friend I’d arranged to meet. The only reason I didn’t want you following me was that I was getting tired of your questions.”

“And here you are, listening to more of them.”

“Cafe du Monde.”

“I was watching from across the street, so I didn’t see everything perfectly. You came out of the restaurant. There was a commotion, a group of costumed people going by. They acted as if they’d been drinking. Then one of them, a man dressed as a pirate, bumped into you. All of a sudden you grabbed your side and spun. A woman screamed. People were scrambling to get out of your way. You tripped over somebody. You hit your head on an iron railing. I ran toward you, but not before I noticed the guy in the pirate costume shove a knife back into his belt as he disappeared into the crowd down the street. I stayed with you, trying to stop the blood while one of the waiters in the restaurant phoned for an ambulance. ”

“Blood doesn’t make you squeamish?”

“Hey, I can’t write the end of my story if you die on me.”

“And all along, I thought it was my personality that attracted you.”

“Which one?”

“What?”

“Which personality? You’ve had so many.”

Buchanan set down a remnant of the tuna sandwich. “I give up. I can’t think of any way to convince you that. .”

“You’re right. There isn’t any way to convince me. And last night made me more sure than ever. The man in the pirate costume didn’t try to mug you. I just told that to the police so they wouldn’t wonder about you. No, that wasn’t an attempted mugging. That was an attempted murder. ” She sat straighter. “Why? Who were you meeting? What’s-?”