The huge cemetery, established in 1873, had once been a pre-Civil-War race track. Like the many other old cemeteries in New Orleans, it consisted of rows and rows of masonry tombs. Each tomb was one hundred feet long and four tiers high with niches into which coffins had been slid, the entrances sealed. The land was so flat and the Mississippi so close that in the previous century the city's moist soil had necessitated above-ground burial. Since then, modern drainage systems had reduced the moisture problem. Nonetheless, tradition had been established, and most interments were still above ground.
Peter Lang had come here often. Among the old cemeteries he'd frequently visited, Metairie had been his favorite. His ostensible purpose for coming had been his taste for Gothic atmosphere and his interest in history, although the actual reason had been that the nooks and crannies of the decaying cemeteries had provided abundant locations for message dead drops (Buchanan-Lang's then control officer had had a morbid sense of humor). On rare occasions, a messenger had passed him a coded note by means of brush contact, the cemeteries so crowded with visitors and mourners that the skillful exchange would not have been detected.
Now Buchanan-Lang came for another reason. He associated the cemetery with Juana. She had often accompanied him on his visits, and her interest in the old tombs had eventually rivaled his. He particularly remembered her delight when she first came upon the miniature mausoleum built for Josie Arlington, a prominent madam in the city many years before. Josie had decided to have her tomb built from symbolic red stone and decorated with granite torches. As Buchanan-Lang reached the tomb, he could almost hear Juana's laughter. The haze in the sky had lifted. The sharp sun gleamed from deep blue, and in the sudden clarity that contrasted with the gloom of the crumbling cemetery, he imagined Juana standing next to him, her head tilted back, her smile bright, her hand on his shoulder. He wanted to hug her.
And tonight he would.
I should never have let you go. My life would have been so different.
I won't let you go a second time. I didn't know how much I needed you.
I meant what I said six years ago. I love you.
Or Peter Lang does.
But what about Buchanan-Lang? he wondered.
And what about Buchanan?
His skull wouldn't stop throbbing. He massaged his temples, but his headache continued to torture him.
11
Six p.m.
Back in his hotel room, he obeyed instructions and waited in case his superiors needed to contact him. He thought about ordering a meal from room service, but his appetite was gone. He thought about watching CNN, but he had no interest. Juana. He kept anticipating his reunion with her. He kept reliving their last night together six years ago. He kept regretting his failed opportunity.
He sat in a chair, and suddenly the room was in blackness. He'd left the draperies open to appreciate the sunset. A moment ago, it seemed, the sky had been crimson. Now abruptly it and the room were dark. Confused, uneasy, he glanced at the luminous dial on his watch.
Nine-sixteen?
No. That wasn't possible. The shadows must be playing tricks on him. He wasn't seeing the dial correctly. Leaning toward a table, he turned on a light and studied his watch, disturbed to discover that the time was indeed nine-sixteen, that three hours and sixteen minutes had passed without his being aware of them.
Dear God, he thought, that's the third time in the last three days. No. I'm wrong. It's the fourth. Jesus. Am I so preoccupied that I'm blotting out my surroundings?
He stood, went to the bathroom, then came back and paced, trying to regain his sense of motion. As he passed the telephone on the bureau near the closet, he was startled to notice that the tiny, red, message light was flashing.
But I didn't hear the phone ring.
Worried that his contact officer had tried to relay emergency instructions, he quickly picked up the phone and pressed 0.
After three buzzes, a woman answered. 'Hotel operator.'
He tried to sound calm. 'This is room twelve-fourteen. My message light is flashing.'
'Just a moment, sir, while I. Yes.'
Buchanan's heart pounded.
The operator said, 'Holly McCoy left a message at five forty-five. It says, "We're staying in the same hotel. Why don't we get together later?" I can call her room if you like, sir.'
'No, thank you. It won't be necessary.'
Buchanan set down the phone.
His emotions were mixed. He felt relieved that he hadn't missed an urgent message that his superiors had tried to give him. He felt equally relieved that the message he had received had been logged at five forty-five. Before he'd returned to his room. Before he'd sat down and lost over three hours. At least he wasn't losing touch so deeply that a phone call failed to rouse him.
But he also felt disturbed that Holly McCoy had managed to track him to this hotel. It wasn't just her annoying persistence that troubled him, her relentless pressure. It was something further. How had she found him? Was she so determined that she'd telephoned every one of the hundreds of hotels in the area and asked for.?
When I made the reservation, I should have used a different name.
Hey, using different names is what got you into this. If Holly McCoy found out that you used an alias to register, then she'd really be suspicious. Besides, if you'd used an unauthorized false name to register, your superiors would have wondered what on earth you thought you were doing? You're supposed to be on R and R, not on a mission.
But that's exactly what Buchanan was on, a mission, and the rendezvous time was almost upon him. He had to get to Caf‚ du Monde by eleven o'clock. That was when he and Juana had arrived there six years ago.
Tonight. After making sure that his pistol was covered by his gray sport coat and securely braced behind his belt at his spine, he opened the door, checked the hallway, locked his room, and went quickly down the fire stairs.
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 each other, 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.