Assumed Identity

3

The one-story house was in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale called Plantation, its plain design disguised by abundant shrubs and flowers. Someone obviously took loving care of the property. Buchanan wondered if Doyle made a hobby of landscaping. Their conversation during the drive from the hospital to Doyle’s home indicated that the recession had affected Doyle’s business and he was hardly in a position to afford a gardener. But after Doyle parked in a carport and led Buchanan through the side screen door into the house, it quickly became obvious who was taking care of the grounds.

Doyle had a wife. Buchanan hadn’t been sure, inasmuch as Doyle didn’t wear a wedding ring, and Buchanan seldom asked personal questions. But now he faced an energetic, pixyish woman a little younger than Doyle, maybe thirty. She had happy eyes, cheerleader freckles, and an engaging, spontaneous smile. Buchanan couldn’t tell what color her hair was because she had it wrapped in a black-and-red-checkered handkerchief. She wore a white cotton apron, and her hands were covered with flour from a ball of dough that she was kneading on a butcher-board counter.

“Oh, my,” she said with a pleasant southern accent (Louisiana, Buchanan thought), “I didn’t think you’d be here this soon.” Appealingly flustered, she touched her face and left a flour print on her freckles. “The house is a mess. I haven’t had time to-”

“The house looks fine, Cindy. Really,” Doyle said. “Traffic wasn’t as bad as I figured. That’s why we’re early. Sorry.”

Cindy chuckled. “Might as well look on the bright side. Now I don’t have to wear myself out rushing to clean the house.”

Her smile was infectious. Buchanan returned it.

Doyle gestured toward him. “Cindy, this is my friend I told you about. Vic Grant. I used to know him in the service. He’s been working for me the past three months.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Cindy held out her hand. Then she remembered the flour on it, blushed, and started to retract the hand.

“No, that’s okay,” Buchanan said. “I like the feel of flour.” He shook hands with her.

“Classy guy,” she told her husband.

“Hey, all my friends are classy.”

“Tell me another one.” She studied Buchanan, pointing at the thick bandage around his skull. “I’ve got another black-and-red handkerchief that’ll sure look better than that.”

Buchanan grinned. “I’m not supposed to take this off for a while. It doesn’t do much good. It’s not like a cast or anything. But it reminds me to be careful of my head.”

“Fractured skull, Jack told me.”

Buchanan nodded, his head still aching.

He expected her to ask him how he’d injured it. That would be a natural, logical next statement, and he was preparing to repeat his lie about falling off a boat, but she surprised him, suddenly switching topics, gesturing toward the dough on the counter. “I’m making you a pie. I hope you like key lime.”

He hid his puzzlement and told her, “I seldom taste homemade pie. I’m sure anything you cook would be wonderful.”

“Jack, I like this guy better and better.”

“I’ll show you to the guest room,” Doyle said.

“Anything you need, just ask,” Cindy added.

“Hey, I bet everything is fine,” Buchanan said. “I really appreciate your taking me in like this. I don’t have a family or anything, and the doctor thought it would be better if. .”

“Shush,” Cindy said. “For the next few days, we’re your family.”

As Doyle led Buchanan from the kitchen toward a sunlit hallway, Buchanan glanced back toward Cindy, still puzzled about why she hadn’t asked him the obvious question about what had happened to his skull.

By now, she had turned from him and resumed kneading the ball of dough on the butcher-board counter. Buchanan noticed that she had flour handprints on the trim hips of her jeans. Then he noticed something else. A snub-nosed.38 revolver was mounted to a bracket beneath the wall phone next to the screen door, and Buchanan knew that Jack Doyle would never have chosen that type of weapon for himself. Doyle would have considered it a toy, preferring a semiautomatic 9-mm or a.45. No, the snub-nosed revolver was for Cindy, and Buchanan was willing to bet that she knew how to use it.

Was the gun there as a precaution against burglars? Buchanan wondered. Had Doyle’s experience with the SEALs made him extra security-conscious in civilian life? As Buchanan followed Doyle down the hallway, he remembered Doyle’s comment about sometimes doing favors for people he used to work for, and immediately he decided that the revolver wasn’t the only weapon he’d find around the house and that Doyle intended the weapons to be a protection for Cindy against the possible consequences of some of those favors.

“Well, here it is.” Doyle led Buchanan into a pleasant, homey bedroom with lace curtains, an antique rocking chair, and an Oriental carpet on a hardwood floor. “The bathroom’s through there. You don’t have to share it. We’ve got our own. No tub, though. Just a shower.”

“No problem,” Buchanan said. “I prefer a shower.”

Doyle set Buchanan’s bag on a polished bench at the foot of the bed. “That’s about it for now, I guess. Unpack. Have a nap. There’s plenty of books on that shelf. Or watch TV.” He pointed toward a small set on a bureau in the corner. “Make like the place is yours. I’ll come back and let you know when lunch is ready.”

“Thanks.”

Doyle didn’t leave, though. He looked preoccupied.

“What’s the matter?” Buchanan asked.

“I don’t know your real background, and it isn’t right for me to know it, but I figure, considering the people who asked me to give you cover, we must be brothers of a sort. I appreciate your thanks. It isn’t necessary, though.”

“I understand.”

Doyle hesitated. “I’ve been following the rules. I haven’t asked you any questions. All I need to know I assume I’ve been told. But there is one thing. What happened and why you’re here. . If you’re able to. . Is there any danger to Cindy?”

Buchanan suddenly liked this man very much. “No. To the best of my knowledge, there isn’t any danger to Cindy.”

The muscles in Doyle’s cheeks relaxed. “Good. She doesn’t know anything about the favors I do. When I was in the SEALs, she never knew where I was being sent or how long I’d be gone. Never asked a single question. Took everything on faith. Never even asked why I wanted her to learn how to shoot or why I’ve got guns mounted around the house.”

“Like the revolver beneath the phone on the wall in the kitchen?” Buchanan asked.

“Yeah, I saw you noticed it. And like this one.” Doyle raised the cover from the side of the bed and showed Buchanan a 9-mm Colt in a holster attached to the bed frame. “Just in case. You ought to know about it. I don’t care what happens to me, but Cindy. . Well, she’s a damned fine woman. I don’t deserve her. And she doesn’t deserve any trouble I bring home.”

“She’s safe, Jack.”

“Good,” Doyle repeated.