Assumed Identity

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. ”

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 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.

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 noncorrective 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 Cafe 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? For whom was he looking? 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.

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 area rugs that had been moved (and one of which was missing), the bullet hole in the hallway ceiling, the blood beneath the area 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