David Morrell - Assumed Identity

His ears rang from the roar of the gunshots. His nostrils widened from the stench of cordite and blood. Drawing his weapon had pulled the stitches in his side and strained the muscles in his injured shoulder. Tugging the body had further strained his side and shoulder. His head continued to feel as if a spike had been driven through it.

He locked the back door behind him, found another area rug, took it into the computer room, and set it over the pool of blood. Then he opened a window to clear the smells of violence. Next, he searched the man’s wallet, found close to three hundred dollars in various denominations, a driver’s license for Charles Duffy of Philadelphia, and a credit card for that name. Charles Duffy might be an alias. It probably was. It didn’t matter. If these credentials had been good enough for the killer, they were good enough for Buchanan. He shoved the wallet into his pocket. He now had a new identity. On the unlikely chance that anybody in this remote area had heard the shots and came to investigate, everything looked normal, except for the finger-sized hole in the hallway ceiling, which by itself wouldn’t arouse suspicion, although the pieces of plaster on the floor would. Buchanan picked them up and shoved them into a pocket.

With haste, he sat before the computer, glanced at the file directory on the screen-A\ B\ C\ D. .-moved the flashing cursor from A to D, and pressed RETURN.

The disk drive made a clicking sound. A new list of files appeared on the screen, a subdirectory for all the headings under D. \

DARNELL

3k

DARNELL.BAK

3k

DAYTON

2k

DAYTON.BAK

2k

DIAZ

4k

DIAZ.BAK

4k

DIEGO

5k

DIEGO.BAK

5k

DOMINGUEZ

4k

DOMINGUEZ.BAK

4k

DRUMMER

5k

DRUMMOND.BAK

5k

DURAN

3k

DURAN.BAK

3k

DURANGO

5k

DURANGO.BAK

5k

Quickly Buchanan opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet and took out the printed documents for D. The only way he could think of to learn whether someone had removed any of the files was to compare the names on the files with those in the computer’s subdirectory. Even so, he didn’t have much hope. The man who’d been hiding here to kill Juana had said that he’d erased some files in the computer, presumably to stop an investigator from doing what Buchanan was trying to do. Almost certainly, the computer’s list would match the names on the printed files. He wouldn’t be able to tell which documents were missing.

Each computer file had a companion file marked BAK, the short term for BACKUP, signifying that the computer’s memory retained the previous version of a newly updated file. DARNELL. DARNELL.BAK. Comparing, Buchanan found a printed file for that name.

He continued. DAYTON. DAYTON.BAK. Check. DIAZ. DIAZ. BAK. Check. DIEGO. DIEGO.BAK. Check. He was finding printed files for every name on the computer screen. DOMINGUEZ. DOMINGUEZ.BAK. DRUMMER. DRUMMER.BAK. DURAN. DURAN.BAK. DURANGO. DURANGO.BAK. Every name was accounted for.

He leaned back, exhausted. He’d wasted his time. There’d been no point in risking his life to come here. All he’d learned was that someone was determined to kill Juana, which he’d known already.

And for that, he himself had nearly been killed.

He rubbed his swollen eyelids, glanced at the computer screen, reached to turn off the computer, but, at the final instant, stopped his trembling hand, telling himself that no matter how hopeless, he had to keep trying. Even though the subdirectory for the files that began with T would probably be as uninformative as the subdirectory for D, he couldn’t ignore it.

He shifted his hand from the OFF button to the keyboard, about to switch subdirectories, when something about the image on the screen made him feel cold. He’d been aware that a detail had been troubling the edge of his consciousness, but he’d attributed his unease to apprehension and the disturbing aftermath of violence.

Now he realized what had been troubling him. His eyes had played a trick on him. DRUMMER. DRUMMER.BAK. Like hell. Drummer didn’t have a backup file. The backup file was for DRUMMOND. Buchanan was certain that he hadn’t seen a file for Drummond, but by now exhaustion so controlled him that he couldn’t trust what he thought he was sure of. His hands shook as he sorted through the printed files. DRUMMER. DURAN. DURANGO. No Drummond.

Christ, he thought. When the killer erased the Drummond file, he hadn’t thought to erase the backup file, or maybe he’d considered doing so but had been stopped because his eyes played the same trick on him that Buchanan’s eyes had played, creating the impression that DRUMMOND.BAK was actually DRUMMER.BAK. The names looked so much alike.

Drummond.

Buchanan didn’t know what the name signified, and when he accessed the DRUMMOND.BAK file, he found to his dismay that it was empty. Either Juana had created the file but never put information into it or else the assassin had erased it from the inside.

Buchanan accessed the subdirectory for T, and now that he knew what to look for, he checked the backup files rather than the primary ones, comparing the names to those on the printed T documents that he took from the filing cabinet.

TAMAYO.BAK. TANBERG.BAK. TAYLOR.BAK. TERRAZA. BAK. TOLSA.BAK. He was becoming more aware of the considerable number of Hispanic names. TOMEZ.BAK. Buchanan’s pulse increased.

There wasn’t any Tomez in the printed files or in the primary files of the computer’s subdirectory for T. Again Buchanan entered the file, and again he found nothing. Cursing, he wondered if Juana herself had erased the contents of the file. All Buchanan had was two last names, and if the assassin hadn’t made the mistake of not deleting the backup titles, Buchanan wouldn’t even have learned those names.

Frustrated, he debated what else to do, reluctantly shut off the computer, and decided to make a quick search of the house, even though he was sure that whoever wanted to kill Juana had sanitized the place.

That was when a chill swept through him as he remembered something odd that the killer had said. “ Where I bunked. Weird. No wonder the woman had it locked. Probably didn’t want her parents to see what she had in there. At first, I thought it was body parts. ”

Body parts?

There’d been so much to do that until now Buchanan hadn’t had the time to find out what the killer referred to. Apprehensive, he stood, left the computer room, and walked along the short hallway toward the next room on the left. The door was open, but the light was off, so Buchanan couldn’t see what was in there. When the killer had gone in to get his cellular phone, he evidently had known exactly where to find it and hadn’t needed to turn on a light. Now Buchanan braced himself, noticed that the door had a dead-bolt lock, unusual for an indoor room, and groped along the inside wall to find a light switch.

When the overhead light gleamed, he blinked, not only from the sudden illumination but also because of what he saw.

The room was startling.

Body parts? Yes, Buchanan could understand why the killer had first thought that body parts were what he was looking at.

Everywhere, except for a corner where the killer had placed a mattress for himself, there were tables upon which objects that resembled noses, ears, chins, cheeks, teeth, and foreheads were laid out in front of mirrors that had lights around them. One table had nothing but hair-different colors, different styles. Wigs, Buchanan realized. And what seemed to be body parts were prosthetic devices similar to what plastic surgeons used to reconstruct damaged faces. Another table was devoted exclusively to several makeup kits.