Assumed Identity

2

NEW ORLEANS

Buchanan squirmed.

“Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

He took a moment to understand what the woman had asked him. He took another moment to answer.

“. . Sore.”

“I bet.” The woman chuckled. It wasn’t a chuckle of derision. It communicated sympathy. Its sound was soft yet deep.

He liked it.

He took another moment for the haze to clear enough that he realized he was in a hospital bed. He didn’t know what pained him more, the throbbing in his head or the burning in his right side. His skull was wrapped with bandages. His side felt stiff from bandages, as well. And stitches.

“You had me worried,” the woman said.

He focused on her, expecting to see a nurse leaning over the bed or possibly, blessedly, Juana, although this woman didn’t have an Hispanic accent.

As he noticed her red hair, the significance of it alarmed him. He squirmed harder.

“Relax,” Holly McCoy said. “You’re all right. You’re going to be fine.”

Like hell, he thought. Everything was wrong, very wrong, although his clouded thoughts prevented him from knowing precisely how wrong.

“Well,” a man said, “I see you’re coming around.”

A doctor. His white coat contrasted with his black skin. He entered the room and studied the medical chart attached to the foot of the bed, finally saying, “The nurses on the night shift had to wake you periodically to test your neurological signs. Do you remember that?”

“. . No.”

“Do you remember me?”

“. . No.”

“Good. Because I didn’t treat you last night when you were brought into the emergency ward. Answer my questions honestly. The first thing that comes into your mind. Understand?”

Buchanan nodded, wincing from the pain that the movement had caused.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“. . Stabbed.”

“Another good answer. Do you remember where?”

“. . My side.”

The doctor smiled slightly. “No. I mean where outside the hospital were you stabbed?”

“. . French Quarter. . Cafe du Monde.”

“Exactly. You were assaulted on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. As soon as you’re up to it, the police will want a statement from you, although I gather your friend here has already provided most of the necessary details.”

Holly nodded.

My friend?

The police?

“If you’re someone who likes company for his misery, you aren’t alone,” the doctor continued. “We had several mugging victims in the emergency ward last night, and some of them weren’t as lucky as you. A few are in critical condition.”

“. . Mugging?”

“I gave the police a description of the man who did it,” Holly said. “Not that it helps. A pirate costume. Last night, a lot of people were wearing costumes.” She raised a plastic cup and placed a bent straw between his lips.

The water was cool.

“You’re at the LSU Medical Center,” the doctor said. “Your wound required twenty stitches. But you were lucky. No major organs were injured. The blade didn’t penetrate as much as it slashed.”

The police? Buchanan thought. Jesus, I was carrying a gun. What if they found it? They must have found it. And Victor Grant’s forged passport. They’ll wonder what-

“You struck your head when you fell,” the doctor said. “You have a concussion.”

Another one?

“There doesn’t appear to be any neurologic damage. Still, you might get tired of everybody asking you the same questions. . Like, how many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“What’s your name?”

. .

“What’s your name?” the doctor repeated.

He concentrated.

Of all the questions. .

Come on. Come on. Who am I supposed to be?

“. . Peter Lang.” He exhaled.

“Nope. Wrong answer. Your wallet-which the mugger didn’t manage to get, by the way-indicates that your name is. .”

“Brendan Buchanan.”

“Better,” the doctor said. “Much better. So let’s be clear. What’s your name?”

“. . Brendan Buchanan.”

“Then why did you say your name was Peter Lang?”

“. . A friend of mine. Have to tell him what happened to me.”

“Ms. McCoy can make your phone calls for you. You had me worried for a moment. I was afraid the concussion was more severe than your CAT scan indicated.”

Didn’t get my wallet? To know that, the police must have searched me. They must have found the gun.

And the passport, too! Maybe this doctor expected me to call myself Victor Grant.

A nurse had been taking his blood pressure. “One fifteen over seventy-five.”

The doctor nodded with approval. “Try to open your eyes as wide as you can. I need to shine this light at your pupils. Good. Now follow the movement of my hand. Bear with me while I tap at your joints. I have to draw the end of this hammer along the bottoms of your feet. Fine. Your reflexes don’t seem impaired. Your lungs sound normal. Your heartbeat is strong and regular. I’m encouraged. Try to rest. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“I’ll keep him company.” Holly gave Buchanan another sip of water.

“As long as he rests. I don’t want him talking a lot. On the other hand, I don’t want him sleeping a lot, either. Not until I’m sure he’s out of danger.”

“I understand. I’ll just be here to reassure him,” Holly said.

“TLC never hurts.” The doctor started to leave, then looked back. “You’ve certainly been having your share of injuries, Mr. Buchanan. What caused the wound to your shoulder?”

“. . Uh. It. .”

“A boating accident,” Holly said. “The edge of a propeller.”

“It’s a good thing you’ve got medical insurance,” the doctor said.