Assumed Identity

8

Caught in limbo but not realizing it, Buchanan hadn’t been conscious of being called by his real name when the portly man in the brown-checkered sport coat had questioned him the previous night. But as soon as the man had drawn attention to what he’d been doing, as soon as Buchanan realized that he was suspended between identities, he became extremely self-conscious about his name. He was so thorough an impersonator that seldom in the past eight years had he thought of himself as Buchanan. To do so would have been incompatible with his various assumed identities. He didn’t just pretend to be those people. He was those people. He had to be. The slightest weakness in his characterization could get him killed. For the most part, he’d so thoroughly expunged the name Buchanan from his awareness that if someone had attempted to test him by unexpectedly calling his name from behind him, he wouldn’t have turned. Habit would not have controlled him. The name would have belonged to a stranger.

But now as the portly man who called himself Alan drove him to get his CAT scan, Buchanan inwardly squirmed whenever his escort called him by his true name, something the escort did often, apparently by intention. Buchanan felt as he had the first time he’d asked a girl to dance or the first time he’d heard his voice on a tape recorder or the first time he’d made love. The doubt and wonder of those experiences had been positive, however, whereas the self-consciousness he endured at being called Buchanan produced the negativity of fear. He felt exposed, vulnerable, threatened. Don’t call me that. If certain people find out who I really am, it’ll get me killed.

In Fairfax, Virginia, at a private medical clinic presumably controlled by Buchanan’s controllers, he was again made nervous, inwardly squirming when the doctor assigned to him persistently called him by his real name.

How are you, Mr. Buchanan? Does your head still hurt, Mr. Buchanan? I have to do a few tests on you, Mr. Buchanan. Excellent responses, Mr. Buchanan. My nurse will take you downstairs for your CAT scan, Mr. Buchanan.

Christ, they didn’t bother to give me even a minimal assumed identity, Buchanan thought. Not even just a John Doe cover name. I wouldn’t have needed supporting documents. An arbitrary alias for purposes of the examination would have been fine. But my real name’s on the medical file the doctor’s holding. I can understand that they wanted to protect the Don Colton pseudonym. But I didn’t have to use it. I could have called myself anything. This way, with my name associated with the CAT scan, if anyone makes a comparison, I can be linked to Victor Grant’s CAT scan.

The doctor turned from examining the film. “Good news. The bruise is considerably reduced, Mr. Buchanan.”

If he calls me that one more time, I’ll-

“And there’s no indication of neurological damage. The shaking in your right hand has stopped. I attribute that previous symptom to trauma caused by the wound to your shoulder.”

“What about my headache?”

“After a concussion, a headache can persist for quite some time. It doesn’t trouble me.”

“Well, you’re not the one with the headache.”

The doctor didn’t react to the attempt at humor. “I can prescribe something for the pain, if you like.”

“Something with a label that says, ‘Do not drive or use heavy machinery while taking this medication’?”

“That’s correct.”

“Thanks, but I’ll stick to aspirin,” Buchanan said.

“As you wish. Come back in a week-let’s make it November second-and I’ll reexamine you. Meanwhile, be careful. Don’t bang your head again. If you have any problems, let me know.”

Problems? Buchanan thought. The kind of problems I’ve got, you can’t solve.