Assumed Identity (1993) (53 page)

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.'

Chapter 17.

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 that 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 as well 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.

As Buchanan entered the room, staring to the right and then the left, then straight ahead, studying each table and the various array of eerily realistic imitations of human features, he understood that in her security business Juana had become a version of what he was. But whereas his own specialty was creating new personalities, hers was creating new appearances.

He'd never been confident with disguises. On occasion, he would grow a mustache or a beard, or else he would put on well-made facsimiles. A few times, he had used non-corrective contact lenses that changed the color of his eyes. A few other times, he had altered the length, style, and color of his hair. As well, he always tried to make each of his identities dress differently from the others, preferring particular watches, belts, shoes, shirts, sunglasses, even ballpoint pens, anything to make each character distinctive, just as each character had a favorite food, favorite music, favorite writer, favorite.

But Juana had become the ultimate impersonator. If Buchanan's suspicion was correct, she hadn't only been altering her personality with each job - she had been totally altering her physical appearance, not just her clothes but her facial characteristics, her weight, her height. Buchanan found padding that would have increased Juana's bust size. He found other padding that would have made her look pregnant. He found cleverly designed sneakers that had lifts that would have made her seem taller. He found makeup cream that would even have lightened the color of her skin.

A part of him was filled with professional amazement. But another part was horrified, realizing that at Caf, du Monde in New Orleans, she could have been sitting right next to him while he waited for her to enter the restaurant, and he would never have known how close she was. During his quest, he might have bumped into her or even spoken to her and never have been aware.

What had happened to her in the past six years? Where had she learned this stuff? Who was he looking for? She could be anybody. She could look like anybody. He remembered the last conversation they'd had. 'You don't know me,' he'd said to justify his inability to commit to her. 'You only know who I pretend to be.'

Well, she had outdone him, becoming the ultimate pretender. As he'd gone through the house, he'd thought it frustrating and strange that he'd found no photographs of her. He'd wanted so much to be reminded of her brown eyes, her shiny black hair, her hauntingly lovely face. Then he'd suspected that her hunters had taken the photographs so they'd be better able to memorize what she looked like. But if so, he now understood, the photographs wouldn't do them any good because there wasn't any definitive image of her. It may have been that Juana herself had removed the photographs because she no longer identified with any individual version of her appearance. Buchanan suddenly had the terrible sense that the woman he (or Peter Lang or whoever the hell he was) had fallen in love with was as insubstantial as a ghost. As himself. He felt sick. But he still had to find her.

Chapter 18.

He closed the window in the computer room, then used a handkerchief to wipe his fingerprints off everything he had touched. He shut off lights as he left each room, reconfirmed that he had done everything he had to, and finally shut the front door behind him, using his picks to relock the two dead-bolts. When the killer's partner arrived to begin his shift, the partner would take a while to figure out what had happened. The two rugs that had been moved (and one of which was missing), the bullet hole in the hallway ceiling, the blood beneath the rug that Buchanan had put in the computer room - each individually would not be obvious, but together they would eventually tell the story. The killer's partner would then waste time looking for the body. His report to his bosses would be confused, adding to the further confusion that the two snipers watching the Mendez house couldn't be found, either. The only certainty was that the people who were hunting Juana knew that a man named Brendan Buchanan had visited Juana's parents, and that made it equally certain that they would associate Brendan Buchanan with everything that had happened tonight. By morning, they'll be hunting me, he thought. No. They'll be hunting Brendan Buchanan. With luck, it'll take them a while to realize that tonight I became Charles Duffy.

Patting the wallet that he'd taken from the dead man and put in his jacket, Buchanan got into the Jeep Cherokee and backed from the driveway. His hands shook. His wounds hurt. His head throbbed. He'd come to the limit of his endurance. But he had to keep going.

A mile down the murky road, at the bottom of a misty hollow, he came to the van. Getting out of the jeep, he kept his right hand behind his back so that he could quickly draw his weapon if there had been trouble while he was away. He saw movement in the mist, tensed, then relaxed somewhat as Anita came toward him, telling him in Spanish that Pedro was in back with the bound and gagged sentries.

'The phone kept ringing.'

'I know,' Buchanan said.

'We thought it might be you, but it didn't ring twice, stop, and then ring again as you said it would if it was you. We didn't answer.'

'You did the right thing.'

Buchanan studied her. She seemed nervous, yes, but not in a way that suggested she knew that someone was hiding and aiming a weapon at her. Nonetheless he didn't fully relax until he made sure that the prisoners were as they had been and that nothing had happened to Pedro.

'Did you find Juana?' Pedro asked.

'No.'

'Did you find any sign of her?'

'No,' Buchanan lied.

'Then this was pointless. What are we going to do?'

'Leave me alone with these men for a minute. Sit with your wife in the jeep,' Buchanan said.

'Why?' Pedro looked suspicious. 'If you're going to question them about Juana, I want to hear.'

'No.'

'What do you mean? I told you if this is about my daughter, I want to hear.'

'Sometimes it's better to be ignorant.'

'I don't understand,' Pedro said.

'You will. Just leave me alone with these men.'

Pedro hesitated, then somberly got out of the van.

Buchanan watched to make sure that Pedro got into the jeep with Anita. Only then did he close the van's rear doors. The back of the van smelled from when Buchanan had allowed each man to use the porta-potty before he drove to Juana's house. They were still naked and looked chilled.

He aimed a flashlight at one man and then the other. 'You should have told me the sentry was in the house.'

Terror made their eyes wide, their faces gaunt.

'Now he's dead,' Buchanan said.

Their fearful expressions intensified.

'That puts the two of you in an awkward position,' Buchanan said. He took out his gun and used his other hand to ungag the first man.

'I figured,' the man said. 'That's why you sent the man and woman away. You didn't want them to see you kill us.'

Buchanan picked up a blanket from a corner of the van.

'Sure,' the man said in despair. 'A blanket can make a not-bad silencer.'

Buchanan pulled the blanket over the man and his partner. 'I wouldn't want you to get pneumonia.'

'What?' The man looked surprised.

'If our positions were reversed,' Buchanan said, 'what would you do to me?

The man didn't answer.

'We're alike, yet we're not,' Buchanan said. 'Both of us have killed. The difference is, I'm not a killer.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Is the distinction too subtle for you to grasp? I'll make it plain. I'm not going to kill you.'

The man looked simultaneously troubled and bewildered, as if mercy were not a familiar concept.

'Provided you follow the ground rules,' Buchanan said.

'What kind of.?'

'First of all, you're going to stay tied up until sunset,' Buchanan said. 'You'll be fed, given water, and allowed to use the toilet. But you'll remain in the van. Is that clear?'

The man frowned and nodded.

'Second, when you're released, you will not harm Pedro and Anita Mendez. They know nothing about me. They know nothing about their daughter. They're totally ignorant about any of this. If you torture them or use any other means to interrogate them, I'll get angry. You do not want me to be angry. If anything happens to them, I'll make your worst fears seem an understatement. You can hide. You can switch identities. It won't do you any good. I make a specialty of finding people. For the rest of your life, you'll keep looking behind you. Clear?'

The man swallowed. 'Yes.'

Buchanan got out of the van, left the doors open, and gestured for Pedro and Anita to come over.

Pedro started to say something in Spanish.

Buchanan stopped him. 'No. We have to speak English. I want to make sure that these men understand every word.'

Pedro looked confused.

'You're going to have a busy day watching them,' Buchanan said. 'I want you to find a place where this van won't be conspicuous. Maybe in back of one of your garages.' He explained his conversation with the prisoners. 'Let them go at sunset.'

'But.'

'Don't worry,' Buchanan said. 'They won't bother you. In fact, they'll be leaving town. Won't you?' he asked the first man.

The first man swallowed again and nodded.

'Exactly. Now all I need is for you to tell me if you have a check-in schedule,' Buchanan said. 'Is there anybody you have to phone at a specific time to let your employer know there hasn't been trouble?'

'No,' the man said.

'You're sure? You're negotiating for your life. Be very careful.'

'We're supposed to phone only if we have a question or something to report,' the man said.

'Then let's wrap this up.' Buchanan's legs were rubbery from pain and fatigue. He turned to Pedro and Anita. 'I need something to eat. I need a place to sleep.'

'We'd be honored to have you as a guest,' Anita said.

'Thanks, but I'd prefer that you don't have any idea where I am.'

'We'd never tell.'

'Of course not,' Buchanan said, not bothering to correct her, knowing that Pedro and his wife didn't have the faintest idea of how vulnerable they would be to torture. 'The less you know about any of this, the better, though. As long as these men realize you can't tell them anything, you're safe. Just keep the bargain I made. Release them at sunset. Meanwhile, on our way into town, I need to pick up my car. My bag's in the trunk.'

'What happens later? After you rest?' Pedro asked.

'I'm leaving San Antonio.'

'To where?'

Buchanan didn't answer.

'Are you going to Philadelphia? To find the people who hired these men? The people you spoke to on the phone?'

Buchanan still didn't answer.

'What happened at Juana's house?'

'Nothing,' Buchanan said. 'Pedro, drive the van while I stay in back and watch these men. Anita, follow in the jeep.'

'But what about Juana?'

'You have my word. I'll never give up.'