Assumed Identity

12

Buchanan’s legs felt unsteady as he crossed the room and secured the lock. The strain of the conversation had intensified his headache. He shoved three Tylenol caplets into his mouth and went into the bathroom to drink a glass of water. His mouth was so dry that he drank a second glass. His reflection in the mirror showed dark patches under his eyes. I’m losing it, he thought.

In the bedroom, he awkwardly closed the draperies. His side hurt when he stretched out on the bed. The darkness was soothing.

But his mind wouldn’t stop working.

Did I pull it off?

Were they convinced?

He didn’t understand why he was so concerned about Holly’s safety. He’d met her only a few days ago. In theory, they were antagonists. Most of his troubles were due to her interference. In fact, it could be argued that Jack and Cindy Doyle were dead because of her. But the truth was that Holly McCoy hadn’t killed the Doyles. His own people had. Just as they’d killed Bailey. And they’d have killed me, too, if I’d been around when Bailey opened the cooler to look at his money.

So they waited for another chance to get me, a way that wouldn’t look suspicious even to a reporter.

Holly McCoy.

Have I grown attracted to her? he wondered. There had been a time when he could have justified anything-the murder of a reporter, anything-for the sake of maintaining an operation’s security. Now. .

Yes?

Maybe I don’t care about the operation any longer. Or maybe. .

What?

Maybe I’m becoming a human being.

Yeah, but which human being?