Assumed Identity

12

The night was eerily similar to the one six years ago. For example, as Buchanan left the hotel, he noticed that the air was balmy with the hint of rain, a pleasant breeze coming in from the Mississippi. The same as before.

He took care to make sure that Holly McCoy wasn’t in sight, but as he walked along Tchoupitoulas Street, restraining his pace so he wouldn’t attract attention, another parallel between tonight and six years before became disconcertingly obvious. It was Halloween. Many pedestrians he passed wore costumes, and again similar to six years before, the most popular costume seemed to be a skeleton: a black tight-fitting garment with the phosphorescent images of bones painted on it and a head mask highlighted with white, representing a skull. With so many people resembling one another, he couldn’t tell if he was being followed. More, all Holly McCoy needed to do to disguise her conspicuous red hair was to wear a head mask. By contrast, on this night, he looked conspicuous, since he was one of the minority who weren’t wearing a costume of some sort.

As he crossed Canal Street toward the French Quarter, he began to hear music, faint, then distinct, the increasing throb and wail of jazz. A while ago, he’d read in a newspaper that New Orleans had instituted a noise ordinance, but tonight no one seemed to care. Street bands competed with those in bars. Dixieland, the blues-these and many other styles pulsed along the French Quarter’s narrow, crowded streets as costumed revelers danced, sang, and drank in celebration of the night of the dead.

. . gone and left me.

When the saints. .

Buchanan tried to lose himself in the crowd. He had less than an hour before he was supposed to be at Cafe du Monde, and he wanted to use that hour to guarantee that his meeting with Juana would not be observed.

As he headed up Bienville Street and then along Royal Street, then up Conti to Bourbon Street, he felt frustrated by the density of the crowd. It prevented him from moving as fast as he wanted, from taking advantage of opportunities to duck into a courtyard or down a side street. Every time he attempted an evasion tactic, a group would suddenly loom in front of him, and anyone who followed would not have trouble keeping up with him while blending with the festivities. He bought a devil’s mask from a sidewalk vendor and immediately found that it restricted his vision so much that he bumped into people, making him feel vulnerable and self-conscious. He took it off, glanced at his watch, and was amazed to discover how much his concentration had compressed the time. It was almost eleven. He had to get to the rendezvous site.

Soon, he thought. Soon he would put his arms around Juana. Soon he’d be able to find out why she needed him. He’d help her. He’d show her how much he loved her. He’d correct the mistake he’d made six years ago.

Who had made?

Coming down Orleans Avenue, he reached the shadows of St. Anthony’s Garden. From there, he took Pirate’s Alley down to Jackson Square. Its huge bronze statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback rose ghostlike from the darkness of the gardens in the locked, deserted park. Using one of the walkways that flanked the wrought-iron fence of the square, he at last reached Decatur Street and paused in the shadows next to the square while he studied his destination.

Where he stood was surprisingly free of the congestion and noise of the rest of the French Quarter. He felt apart from things, more vulnerable. Several glances behind him gave him the assurance of being alone.

And yet he felt threatened. Again he studied his destination. At last, he stepped into view, felt as if he had reentered the world, crossed Decatur, and made his approach toward Cafe du Monde.

It was a large concrete building whose distinctive feature was that its walls were composed of tall, wide archways that made the restaurant open-air. During heavy rains, the interior could be protected by lowering green-and-white-striped canvas, but usually-and tonight was no exception-the only thing that separated people on the street from the restaurant’s patrons were waist-high iron railings. Tonight, the same as six years ago, the place was crowded more than usual. Because of the holiday. Because of Halloween. Expectant customers, many of them in costume, stood in a line on the sidewalk, waiting to be admitted.

Buchanan strained to catch a glimpse of Juana, hoping that the crowd would have made her decide to wait outside for him. He and Juana would be able to get away from the noise and confusion. He would lovingly put his arm around her and try to find a quiet place. He would get her to tell him what terrible urgency had made her send the postcard, allowing him a second chance.

There was an addition to the restaurant. Smaller than the main section, it had a green-and-white roof supported by widely separated slender white poles that made this part of the restaurant seem even more open-air. He stared past the low metal railing toward the customers close together around small circular tables. The place rippled with constant movement. Hundreds of conversations rushed over him.

Juana. He strained harder to see her. He shifted position to view the interior of the restaurant from a different angle. He scanned the line of waiting customers.

What if she’s wearing a costume? he thought. What if she’s afraid to the point that she put on a disguise? He wouldn’t be able to recognize her. And she might not hurry to meet him. She might be so terrified that she had to assess everyone around him before she revealed herself.

Juana. Even if she wasn’t wearing a costume, how could he be certain he would recognize her? Six years had passed. She might have grown her hair long. She might have. .

And what about him? How had his appearance, like his identities, changed in six years? Was his hair dyed the same color? Did he weigh the same? Should he have a mustache? He couldn’t remember if Peter Lang had worn a mustache. Did-?

Juana. He brushed past waiting customers and entered the restaurant, determined to find her. She had to be here. The postcard couldn’t have had any other meaning. She needed to see him. She wanted his help.

“Hey, buddy, wait your turn,” someone said.

“Sir, you’ll have to go to the end of the line,” a waiter told him.

“You don’t understand. I’m supposed to meet someone, and-”

“Please, sir. The end of the line.”

Juana. He backed away. His headache intensified as he scanned the crush of customers in the restaurant. Outside on the sidewalk, he rubbed his throbbing head. When a rush of people in costumes swept past him, he whirled to see if Juana might be one of them.

The knife slid into his side. Sharp. Cold. Tingly. Suddenly burning. It felt like a punch. It knocked him off balance. It made him groan. As he felt the wet heat of his gushing blood, someone screamed. People scrambled to get away from him. A man knocked against him. Fighting to stem the flow of his blood, he slipped. The iron railing appeared to rush toward him.

No! he mentally screamed. Not my head! Not again! I can’t hurt my-!