Wade steered off the Paseo de Mayo, stopping on a side street. The stores were now open.
'I don't have the strength to carry anything heavy. Make sure the suitcase has rollers.' Buchanan told Wade his sizes. 'I'll need underwear, socks, T-shirts.'
'Yes, the usual.' Wade got out of the Ford. 'I can handle it, Buchanan. I've done this before.'
'You son of a bitch.'
'What?'
'I told you don't call me "Buchanan". I'm Victor Grant.'
'Right, Victor,' Wade said dryly. 'I wouldn't want you to forget who you were.' He started to close the door, then paused. 'Hey, while you're practicing your lines. that is, when you're not calling me names. why don't you try eating some of those donuts, so you're not so weak that you fall on your face when you get to the airport?'
Buchanan watched the slightly bald, slightly overweight man in the lemon colored polo shirt disappear into the crowd. Then he locked the doors, tilted his head back, and felt his right hand tremble. At once his whole body shivered. The fever, he thought. It's really getting to me. I'm losing control. Wade's my life line. What am I doing? Don't make him mad.
Buchanan's shoes nudged the bag of donuts on the floor. The thought of eating made him nauseous. As did the pain in his shoulder. And in his skull. He shuddered. Just a few more hours, he told himself. Hang on. All you have to do is get through the airport. He forced himself to drink more orange juice. The acidic sweetness made his stomach queasy. Victor Grant, he told himself, concentrating, struggling to chew on a donut. Victor Grant. Divorced. Fort Lauderdale. Customizes pleasure boats. Installs electronics. Victor.
He jerked as Wade unlocked the driver's door and put a suitcase in the back.
'You look terrible,' Wade said. 'I brought a toilet kit: a razor and shaving soap, toothpaste.'
2
They drove to a wooded park that had a public washroom. Wade bolted the door and stood behind Buchanan, holding him steady while Buchanan hunched over the sink, trembling, doing his best to shave. He tried to comb his blood-matted hair but didn't have much success, deciding that he'd definitely have to use the straw hat that Wade had bought for him. He used bottled water to brush his teeth, feeling marginally better now that he was partially cleaned up. His shirt and pants, which the sea had cleaned sufficiently of blood to stop people from staring at him last night, were unacceptably soiled and wrinkled in the daylight. He changed into a fresh shirt and pair of pants that Wade had bought, and after they left the washroom, Buchanan crammed the dirty clothes into the suitcase in the Ford's back seat. Associating his Seiko watch with the now-defunct character of Ed Potter, he traded it for Wade's Timex, anything to get the feel of a new identity.
By then, it was eleven o'clock.
'Traveling time,' Wade said.
In contrast with the large, picturesque city, the airport was surprisingly small and drab. Wade managed to find a parking space in the lot in front of the low terminal. 'I'll carry your suitcase to the entrance. After that...'
'I understand.'
As they walked toward the entrance, Buchanan glanced casually around, studying the area. No one seemed to be paying attention to him. He concentrated on walking in a straight line, not wavering, not betraying his weakness. At the sidewalk in front of the doors, he shook hands with Wade. 'Thanks. I know I was a little grumpy a couple of times. I.'
'Forget it. This isn't a popularity contest.' Wade continued to grip Buchanan's right hand. 'Something's wrong with your fingers. They're jerking.'
'It's not a problem.'
Wade frowned. 'Sure. I'll be seeing you, Victor.' He emphasized the pseudonym. 'Have a good flight.'
'I'm counting on it.'
Buchanan made sure that the scrape was hitched firmly to his right shoulder, hiding his wound. He gripped the pull-strap on the suitcase and entered the terminal.
3
Several impressions struck him simultaneously. The terminal was stark, hot, tiny, and crowded. Everyone, except for the few Anglos, seemed in slow motion. As one of those few Anglos, Buchanan attracted attention, Mexican travelers studying him as he inched through the claustrophobia-producing crowd. He sweated as much as they did, feeling faint, wishing the terminal were air-conditioned. At least I'll have a reason for looking sick, he thought, trying to muster confidence. He stood in a frustrating line at the Aeromexico ticket counter. It took him thirty minutes before he faced an attractive female attendant. Using Spanish, he told her what he needed. For a moment his heart lurched when she appeared not to know anything about a reservation for Victor Grant, but then she found the name on her computer screen and with painstaking care made an impression of his credit card, asked him to sign the voucher, and peeled off his receipt.
'Gracias.' Hurry, Buchanan thought. His legs were losing their strength.
With even greater care, she tapped keys on the computer and waited for the printer, which also seemed in slow motion, to dislodge the ticket.
But at last Buchanan had it, saying 'Gracias' again, turning away, pulling the suitcase, inching again through the crowd, this time toward the X-ray machine and the metal detector at the security checkpoint. He felt as if he struggled through a nightmare in which he stood in mud and tried to walk. His vision dimmed for a moment. Then a sudden surge of adrenaline gave him energy. With effort, he used his left hand to lift the suitcase onto the X-ray machine's conveyor belt and proceeded through the metal detector, so off balance that he almost bumped against one of its posts. The detector made no sound. Relieved that the security officers showed no interest in him, Buchanan took his suitcase from the opposite end of the conveyor belt, set it with effort on the floor, and patiently worked his way forward through the crowd. The heat intensified his headache. Whenever someone bumped against his right shoulder, he needed all his discipline not to show how much pain the impact caused him.
Almost there, he thought. Two more checkpoints and I'm through. He stood in a line to pass through a customs inspection. Mexico was lax about many things but not about trying to stop ancient artifacts from being smuggled out of the country.
The haggard customs agent pointed at Buchanan's suitcase. 'Abralo. Open it.' He didn't look happy.
Buchanan complied, his muscles in agony.
The agent pawed through Buchanan's clothes, glowered when he didn't find anything suspicious, then gestured dismissively.
Buchanan moved onward. Only one more checkpoint, he thought. Emigration. All I have to do is hand in my tourist card, then pay the fifteen-dollar exit fee.
And hope that the emigration officer doesn't have a police sketch of me.
As Buchanan moved tensely through the crowd, he heard a slight commotion behind him. Turning, he saw a tall American shove his way past an Hispanic woman and three children. The American had a salt-and-pepper beard. He wore a gaudy, red-and-yellow-splotched shirt. He held a gym bag and muttered to himself, continuing to push ahead, causing a ripple in the crowd.
The ripple spread toward Buchanan. Trapped by people on every side, he couldn't avoid it. All he could do was brace himself as a man was nudged against another man, who in turn was nudged against Buchanan. Buchanan's legs were so weak that he depended on the people around him to keep him steady, but when the ripple struck him, he suddenly found that the person ahead of him had moved forward. Shoved against his back, Buchanan felt his knees bend and reached ahead to grab for someone to steady him. But at that moment, another ripple in the crowd nudged against his left shoulder. He fell, his mind so dazed that everything seemed a slow blur. When his right shoulder struck the concrete floor, the pain that soared from his wound changed his impression, however, and made everything fast and sharply focused. Sweat from his forehead spattered the concrete. He almost screamed from the impact against his wound.