What The Dead Know Part 21

"A connection that a child wouldn't know about, because no eleven-year-old knows who endorses a check." Willoughby's gaze returned to the pa.s.sing scenery, although there wasn't much of note. "I can't decide if this makes me more inclined to trust our mystery woman or less. You know, she could be someone that Stan Dunham confided in, for whatever reason. Or Tony Dunham, more likely. A relative, a friend. Nancy told me that she was very insistent that you check the school records, that we'll find Ruth Leibig in the records at that Catholic school in York."

"But that won't prove she is Ruth Leibig, just that Ruth Leibig existed and went to that school. You know, they say you can't prove a negative, but it's turning out to be pretty d.a.m.n hard to prove who this woman is. What if she just claims another ident.i.ty, then another? Ruth Leibig is dead, after all. This woman is the G.o.dd.a.m.n Queen of the Dead."

They left the highway and headed north. The suburbs had crept farther and farther out in the decade since Infante first moved to Baltimore, but there were still some traces of country life here in Sykesville. Yet the facility itself was quite fancy, stark and modern, even more impressive than the one in which Willoughby lived. How did an old cop, one without a trust fund, afford a place like this? Then Infante remembered the sale of the property up in Pennsylvania, Dunham's interest in annuities when he was still relatively robust, according to the lawyer. The guy was a planner, no doubt about it. The only question was whether he had planned his crimes as carefully as he had mapped out the financial specs of his final years.

WILLOUGHBY SHUDDERED A LITTLE when they were directed to the hospice wing where Stan Dunham was kept. That surprised Infante at first, but then he remembered: Willoughby's wife had died in such a place, had made the short, one-way trip from apartment to care ward when she was still in her fifties.

"Mr. Dunham has virtually no speech at this point," said the pretty young nursing aide who escorted them, Terrie. Nurses-he should date more nurses. They were a good fit for a police. He wished they still wore those white dresses, the ones that were tight at the waist, and those little caps with wings. This one had on mint-green pants, a flowery top, and some b.u.t.t-ugly green clogs, but she was still striking. "He makes occasional sounds, some of which indicate what he's feeling, but he can't communicate more than his basic needs. He's late-stage."

"Is that why he's been moved to the hospice?" Willoughby asked, stumbling a little over the last word.

"We don't move people into hospice unless their life-span is expected to be less than six months. Mr. Dunham was diagnosed with stage-four lung cancer three months ago. Poor guy. He's really had nothing but bad breaks."

Yeah, Kevin thought. Poor guy. He asked, "He had a son, Tony. Did he ever visit?"

"I didn't know his son was alive. His lawyer is our only contact. Maybe they were estranged. That happens."

Maybe the son didn't want anything to do with the father. Maybe the son knew what went down, all these years ago, and he told his girlfriend, Penelope, and she told someone, someone who happened to be driving her car.

KEVIN KNEW THAT someone with advanced Alzheimer's couldn't provide any meaningful information, but he was still disappointed when he saw Stan Dunham. This was a husk of a man in plaid pajamas and bathrobe. The only signs of life in him were the comb marks in his hair, the fresh shave. Did the nurse do those things? Dunham's eyes certainly brightened at the sight of her, pa.s.sed over Kevin and Willoughby with mild interest, then returned to the nurse.

"Hi, Mr. Dunham." Terrie's voice was bright and enthusiastic, but it wasn't overly loud or babyish. "You have two visitors. Someone who used to work with you."

Dunham continued to look at her.

"I didn't work with you," Infante said, trying for Terrie's tone, only to come across like some hale and hearty car salesman. "But Chet here did. He was in homicide. You remember him? Probably best known for catching the Bethany case. The Bethany case."

He repeated the last three words slowly and carefully, but nothing registered. Of course. He knew it wouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. Dunham kept staring at pretty Terrie. His gaze was like a dog's, affectionate and utterly dependent. If this man was the Bethany girls' abductor, he was a monster. But even monsters aged, became frail. Even monsters died.

Infante and Willoughby began systematically opening drawers and closets, looking for anything. Looking for everything.

"He doesn't have a lot of possessions," Terrie said. "There's not much point..." Her voice trailed off, as if the man sitting in the chair, the man who followed her face and voice with such determined attention, might be surprised at the news that he was dying. "But there is a photo alb.u.m, which we look at together sometimes. Don't we, Mr. Dunham?"

She reached under the ottoman and unearthed a large, cloth-covered book, a satiny white that had faded to yellow. On the cover a blue-diapered baby crowed, "It's a boy!" When Infante opened the book, the handwriting was clearly a woman's, a fine up-and-down cursive hand that recorded the life of one Anthony Julius Dunham from his birth (six pounds, twelve ounces) to his christening to his high school graduation. His mother, unlike some, had never lost patience with the task of jotting down her son's every accomplishment. A certificate for completing a summer reading program, a Red Cross card noting that he had achieved "intermediate" status as a swimmer at Camp Apache. Report cards-not very impressive ones-were affixed to the pages with black triangles.

The photos made Infante wistful for his own dad. Not because there was a resemblance between Infante's dad and the younger, more robust Stan Dunham, but because the photos captured the generic moments of family life that everyone experienced. Goofiness around the house, landmarks on vacation, squinting into the sun at ceremonies. Each was carefully labeled in that same feminine handwriting. "Stan, Tony, and me, Ocean City, 1962." "Tony at school picnic, 1965." "Tony's high school graduation, 1970." In nine short years, the son had gone from a crew-cut towhead in striped T-shirt to a long-haired, would-be hippie. Hard on a cop, Infante thought, especially one of that era, but whatever Tony wore, the parents who bracketed him beamed with pride.

The last photo-Tony in what appeared to be a gas-station uniform-was labeled "Tony's new job, 1973." The book ended there, although there were still several pages left. Two years before the girls disappeared. Why had this woman stopped doc.u.menting every phase of her son's life? Did he move out in 1973? Was he there when his father brought home a girl in 1975? What had Stan Dunham told them, how had he explained the sudden appearance of a preadolescent girl?

"Kevin, check this out."

Willoughby had pushed aside pillows that may or may not have been arranged to hide a large cardboard carton on the upper shelf in a closet. Terrie interceded, staggering a little under the weight of the box, and Infante helped her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. She gave him an amused look as if she were used to such ploys, making him feel old and geezerish, another guy in her care trying to cop a feel.

The box was full of the kind of detritus that students collect. Report cards, programs, school newspapers. All from the Sisters of the Little Flower, Infante noted-and featuring the name of Ruth Leibig. No alb.u.m for Ruth, whoever she was, although her grades were certainly better than Tony's. No photographs either, and nothing dated before the fall of 1975. There was a diploma, though, from 1979. Strangest of all, there was an old-fashioned tape recorder, a bright red box shaped like a purse. He pushed a b.u.t.ton, but nothing happened, of course. The tape inside was Jethro Tull's Aqualung. On the bottom of the player was an equally old-fashioned label, the kind made with one of those guns. "Ruth Leibig," it said.

Infante dug deeper in the box and found something stranger still: a marriage certificate, also dated 1979. Between Ruth Leibig and Tony Dunham, as witnessed by his parents, Irene and Stan Dunham.

Tony's dead? That, according to Nancy and Lenhardt, was the piece of information that had surprised the woman during their interview. Not saddened, however. Shocked and upset, even angered. But she hadn't been the least bit sad. At the same time, she had never mentioned Tony, not by name.

"What happened?" Infante asked Stan Dunham, who seemed startled by the tone of his voice, the loudness of it. "Who was Ruth Leibig? Did you kidnap a young girl, kill her sister, then screw the little one until she hit her teenage years, when you made a present of her to your son? What happened on that farm, you sick old f.u.c.k?"

The nurse was appalled. She wouldn't be kindly inclined toward him if he called her in a week or so. Remember me? I'm the detective who cursed at the old man you think is such a sweetheart. Wanna go out sometime?

"Sir, you must not speak that way-" Dunham didn't seem to notice that anything was happening.

Infante opened the photo alb.u.m, pointed to the last picture of Tony. "He's dead, you know. Burned up in a fire. Maybe murdered. Did he know what you did? Did his girlfriend know?"

The old man shook his head, sighed, and looked out the window, as if Infante were the demented one, a raving lunatic to be ignored. Did he understand anything? Did he know anything? Were the facts locked in his brain or gone forever? Wherever they were, they were inaccessible to Infante. Stan Dunham returned to looking at his nurse, as if seeking her a.s.surance that this disruption to his routine would end soon. When's it going to be just you and me again? he seemed to be asking her. She spoke to him in a soft, rea.s.suring voice, stroking his hand.

"That's not actually allowed," she said with a worried glance at Infante. "Touching patients like that. But he's the nicest man, my favorite of all the ones in my care. You have no idea."

"No," Kevin said. "I don't." G.o.d knows what he'd have done to you if he'd met you when you were a teenager.

Chet Willoughby had continued to sift through the box of papers, returning to the diploma and the marriage certificate, which he studied through tortoisesh.e.l.l reading gla.s.ses.

"Something's not right, Kevin. It's hard to be definitive, but it's highly unlikely, based on these, that Ruth Leibig is Heather Bethany."

CHAPTER 39.

Kay's dining room had a set of French doors that separated it from the living room, and she had noticed over the years that her children seemed to feel invisible when the doors were closed. She often took advantage of this, situating her favorite reading chair so she could glance up and catch a glimpse of Grace or Seth at their least self-conscious, a state of being that was increasingly rare with each pa.s.sing year. Adolescence was like a big scab, or scar tissue, a gradual covering of a soul too soft and open to be exposed to the elements. She liked the way Grace chewed on her hair while doing her math homework, a habit that Kay remembered from her own girlhood. Seth, at eleven, still spoke to himself, narrating his life in a quiet, unrushed monologue that reminded Kay of the commentary for golf tournaments. "Here's my snack," he would say, lining or stacking his cookies into precise patterns and structures. "Oreos, real Oreos, because you can't fake Oreos. And here is the milk, low-fat, Giant brand, because milk is milk. Yesssssss!" The part about the milk was Kay's voice boomeranging back to her, from the early days after the divorce when she worried about money constantly and abandoned all brand names in favor of store labels, and even made the children submit to blind taste tests to show them that they could not possibly discern the difference among various brands of chips and cookies. Thing was, they could, so she had ended up compromising on that issue. Name brands for cookies, chips, and sodas, the store brand for milk, pasta, bread, and canned goods.

Sometimes her children caught her looking at them through the gla.s.s, but they didn't seem to mind too much. Perhaps they even enjoyed it, because Kay never laughed or teased them at such moments. Instead she shrugged guiltily and went back to her book as if she had been caught unawares.

Today it was Heather in the dining room, however, and she scowled when she saw Kay on the other side of the gla.s.s, even though Heather had been doing nothing more than reading the Sunday paper and Kay's only thought was how pretty Heather looked in the grayish light. Peering at the paper, which she held at arm's length as if slightly farsighted, she had no lines in her forehead and her jawline was still smooth and taut. Only a deep dent between her eyes betrayed her fierce concentration.

"When did the Sunday comics stop running Prince Valiant?" she asked when Kay carried her coffee mug into the room, trying to act as if it were her destination all along. Then, before Kay could answer-not that she had an answer-Heather decided for herself, "No, it wasn't the Beacon that ran Prince Valiant. It was the Star. We got the Beacon on weekday mornings, but on Sunday we got both papers. My dad was a news junkie."

"I haven't heard anyone speak of the Beacon for years. It merged with the Light back in the eighties, around the time the Star folded. But Baltimore being Baltimore, some people still talk about the Beacon as if it still existed. You sounded like a real old-time Baltimorean just then."

"I am a real old-time Baltimorean," Heather said. "Or was, at any rate. I guess I belong to another place now."

"Were you born here?"

"What, that didn't come up in any of your Google searches? Are you asking for yourself or for them?"

Kay blushed. "That's not fair, Heather. I haven't taken sides in this. I'm a neutral party."

"My father always said there was no neutrality, that even the act of being neutral involved taking a side." She was challenging Kay now, accusing her of something, but what?

"I didn't tell anyone that we stopped at the mall yesterday."

"Why would you?"

"Well, I wouldn't, but...you can see-it might have been of interest. I mean, if they knew..." Kay was grateful for the ringing telephone that interrupted her stammering, although she wasn't sure why she was the one who was fl.u.s.tered and embarra.s.sed. From somewhere upstairs Grace's voice sounded with the usual frenzied excitement that the telephone provoked in her. "I'll get it!" Then, in a forlorn, flat tone that told the story of a million dashed expectations: "It's someone named Nancy Porter. She wants to talk to Heather."

Heather went into the kitchen and made a point of pulling the swinging door shut behind her. Even so, Kay could hear her short, brittle answers. What? What's the rush? Can't it wait until tomorrow?

"They want me to come back," Heather said, pushing through the door with such force that it stayed open. "Can you take me there, in about a half hour or so?"

"More questions?"

"I'm not sure. It's hard to believe there could be any more questions, after what they put me through yesterday. But my mother is here, and they want me to meet with her. Nice reunion, huh? In a police interrogation room, where our every word can be recorded, overheard. I bet they've spent the morning debriefing her, telling her that they think I'm a liar, begging her to prove that I'm not who I say I am."

"Your mother will know you," Kay said, but Heather didn't seem to hear the rea.s.surance in her voice, the implicit promise that Kay wasn't neutral. Kay believed her. In fact, it occurred to Kay that Heather might be more credible when she wasn't trying to prove how credible she was. When she talked about Sunday comics and the things her father used to say, she was effortlessly herself.

"Look, I'm going to go back to my room, brush my teeth and hair, and then we can go, okay? I'll meet you back here in a bit."

SHE CROSSED THE small flagstone path that led through the backyard and to the garage, which was set far back on the property, bordering the alley. Stupid to say that thing about Google. What if they went into Kay's computer, traced her movements? Any competent technician could find her company's Web site and the e-mail she had sent her boss. Was Kay watching, did she have to go upstairs? After all, there was nothing there that she needed. The police had taken her key ring the night they stopped her. How grateful she'd been at the time that even her key ring couldn't betray her. It was just a lump of turquoise on a silver bar, something picked up in a thrift shop, an item of no significance. For obvious reasons, she had never been one to personalize her belongings, to embroider her monogram into things, although it had certainly been suggested that she do just that on various tea towels and ap.r.o.ns, back when she was in her teens and "engaged" to Tony Dunham. "Sure, Auntie. I'm just dying to have a f.u.c.king hope chest." She had been slapped for the "f.u.c.king," yet not for the f.u.c.king. What a household. What a G.o.dd.a.m.n messed-up, mixed-up place that had been, behind the gingham curtains and the ruffled petunias in the window boxes.

She wished she had some money or at least a credit card. Oh, if only her wallet hadn't been missing-stolen by Penelope, she was sure of that much now, the woman was clearly a schemer, incapable of grat.i.tude-and she hadn't been so confused and disoriented that first night. She could have talked her way out of the traffic violation somehow, even with no license and a car registered to someone else. Although, knowing what she did of Penelope, she wouldn't be surprised to find out that the license plates had expired or that the car had multiple parking citations stacked up in some munic.i.p.al computer somewhere.

She glanced back over her shoulder. Kay was still in the kitchen, drinking her coffee by the sink. s.h.i.t. She would have to go upstairs after all. Then what?

IT WAS HARD, opening the bathroom window with just one arm to press against the old, warped wood, harder still to squeeze through the tiny opening and drop a full story, but she managed. Adrenaline was a marvelous thing. Brushing the knees of her slacks-Grace's actually, and she felt bad about that, of all the things she'd done, she felt bad about taking a teenager's favorite slacks and getting the knees dirty-she got her bearings. The closest busy street was Edmondson, to her right. It led straight to the Beltway, but she couldn't hitchhike on the Beltway. She should try Route 40, but that ran east-west and she needed to go south. She'd figure it out. She always figured things out, eventually.

She began walking briskly, rubbing her arms. It would be cold when the sun went down, but perhaps she would get lucky, make it home by then. If she could get a lift to the airport and take the train-Did the locals run on Sundays? Amtrak did, and if they didn't catch her by New Carrollton, she could make it the whole way. Even on a local, she was willing to bet that she could stall a conductor for a few stops, persuade him that she'd lost her ticket, maybe even been mugged, although that was risky, for he would want her to report that to the police. If only she'd gotten on the train Tuesday, the way she was supposed to. She could tell the conductor that she had a fight with...her boyfriend, and he pushed her out of the car, that was it, and she was stranded and needed to get home. She could sell that story. h.e.l.l, she'd once seen a homeless woman ride free from Richmond to Washington, even as she chattered that she was going to meet with the president. It's not as if they put you off in the middle of the tracks, and if she could make Union Station, she had a shot. She'd call a coworker, or even her boss if necessary, maybe risk jumping the turnstiles on the Metro, anything to get home again. It was all she could do not to break into a trot toward the busy street, with cars rushing back and forth. She felt as if she were running toward the real world, a place of motion and confusion where she could once again safely disappear, that she would have to reach top speed to break through the wall between it and this make-believe kingdom where she'd lived the past five days.

But just as she came to the end of the alley, a patrol car surged forward and blocked her path, and that plump, smug detective stepped out.

"I called you on my cell," Nancy Porter said. "We weren't sure you would run, but we were curious to see what you would do when we said we wanted you to meet Miriam. Infante's at the other end of the alley. And, as you know, there was always a uniform out front."

"I'm just taking a walk," she said. "Is that against the law?"

"Infante went to see Stan Dunham this afternoon. He learned some interesting things."

"Stan Dunham's not capable of telling anyone anything, even if he were so inclined."

"See, it's really interesting that you know that, because you managed not to mention his incapacitation yesterday, and I made a point of not sharing it, because I wanted you to think he could contradict you. Yesterday you indicated that you hadn't had any contact with him for years."

"I haven't."

The detective opened the rear door. It was a proper police car, with a wire screen between the front and back seats. "I don't want to cuff you, because of your arm and because there's no charge on you-yet. But this is going to be your last chance to tell us what really happened to the Bethany girls, Ruth. a.s.suming you know."

"I haven't been Ruth for years," she said, getting into the car. "Of all my names, I hated Ruth the most. I hated being Ruth the most."

"Well, you're giving us your current name today, or you're spending the night in the Women's Detention Center. We've indulged you for five days, but time's up. You're going to tell us who you are, and you're going to tell us what you know about the Dunham family and the Bethany girls."

If she had to put a name to what she was feeling, it might have been relief, the knowledge that this was going to end once and for all. Then again, it might have been absolute dread.

CHAPTER 40.

"We could show her to you, on the closed-circuit video," Infante offered Miriam. "Or walk her by you in the hall, let you get a look at her."

"There's no way she's Heather?"

"Not if she's Ruth Leibig, and she's all but admitted that was her name. Ruth Leibig graduated from high school in York, Pennsylvania, in 1979 and married the Dunhams' son the same year. Heather would have been sixteen then. The marriage would have been legal, especially with the Dunhams as witnesses. But how likely is it that Heather graduated high school two years early?"

"I was the one who picked up on that," Willoughby put in, but Infante didn't begrudge him that little bit of self-importance. Eventually Infante would have noticed it, too, the date discrepancy. But such facts as the Bethany girls' DOBs were burned into Willoughby's brain, much as the old man had tried to deny it.

"No, Heather was smart, but not so smart that she could skip two grades," Miriam admitted. "Not even in a parochial school in the Pennsylvania boondocks."

Infante had gone to Catholic school and thought it pretty rigorous, but he wasn't going to contradict Miriam on anything just now.

"So what did happen to my daughters?" Miriam asked. "Where are they? What does any of this have to do with Stan Dunham?"

"Our supposition is that he did abduct and kill your girls and that his son's wife, Ruth, somehow came to be privy to the details," Infante said. "We're not sure why she's safeguarding her current ident.i.ty, but chances are she's wanted on a warrant for something else. Or she knows for sure that Penelope Jackson set the fire that killed Tony Dunham, and she's trying to protect her, although she keeps insisting she has no relationship with the Jackson woman. When we ask about the car, she takes the Fifth. When we ask her anything, she takes the Fifth."

Nancy leaned in, pushing a gla.s.s of water toward Miriam. "We've told her that if she'll give us Penelope Jackson on the murder of Tony Dunham in Georgia, we might be able to cut a deal with her on the hit-and-run here and whatever else she's running from, depending how serious it is. But other than admitting she was once Ruth Leibig, she's just not talking, not even to her own lawyer. Gloria's urged her to make a deal, to tell us everything she knows, but she seems almost catatonic."

Miriam shook her head. "That makes two of us. I'm numb. All along I kept telling myself that it was impossible, that she had to be an impostor. I thought I had...insulated myself against hope. Now I realize I wanted it to be true, that I thought by coming here I could make it true."

"Of course you did," Lenhardt said. "Any parent would. Look, come tomorrow, Monday, we're going to be able to piece a lot more things together. We'll be able to check to see if Tony and Ruth ever divorced, what jurisdiction it was in, stuff like that. We'll track down people from the school, even if the parish is gone. For the first time, we have leads, solid ones."

"She's not Heather," Willoughby put in, "but she has the answers, Miriam. She knows what happened, if only secondhand. Maybe Dunham confided in his daughter-in-law after the diagnosis, maybe she was his confidante."

Miriam slumped in Lenhardt's chair. She looked every bit her age now, and then some, her good posture gone, her eyes sunken. Infante wanted to tell to her that she had accomplished much by coming here, that her trip had been worthwhile, but he wasn't sure it was true. They would have searched Dunham's room eventually, even without Miriam identifying the link between her household and his. Visiting the old man hadn't seemed urgent when his name first surfaced, because of the dementia, but they would have started poking around in his affairs soon enough. h.e.l.l, up until this afternoon Infante hadn't even been convinced that Dunham was connected to anyone but Tony Dunham and the ever-elusive Penelope Jackson. That was the one link they had established independently-mystery woman to Penelope Jackson to Tony Dunham to Stan Dunham.

Still, if he was being honest with himself, he had to second-guess his own decision not to visit Dunham as soon as he had the name. Was it because Stan Dunham was a police? Had he hesitated, made a b.u.m decision because he just couldn't believe that one of their own could be involved in such a sick crime? Should they have locked her up the first night and trusted the accommodations at the Women's Detention Center to provide all the encouragement she needed to talk? She had played them all, even Gloria, her own lawyer, stalling them, trying to figure out a way to keep from telling them who she was. But she wasn't gutsy enough, or depraved enough, to try to play the mother that way. Maybe that was the one shred of decency in her, the place where she drew the line. She had run because she didn't want to confront the mother.

Or maybe she had run because she believed that Miriam, with a glance, could do the one thing that they had failed to do this past week-eliminate with cert.i.tude the possibility that she was Heather Bethany.

"Walk her by me," Miriam said softly. "I don't want to talk to her-that is, I do, I want to scream at her, ask her a thousand questions, then scream some more-but I know I mustn't do any of those things. I just want to look at her."

MIRIAM WAITED in the lobby of the Public Safety Building. She thought of putting on dark gla.s.ses, then almost laughed out loud at her own heightened sense of drama. After all, this woman didn't know her. If she'd ever seen Miriam, it was in photographs from that time, and while Miriam knew she had aged exceptionally well, she would never be mistaken for her thirty-eight-year-old self. Fact is, her thirty-nine-year-old self had barely resembled the thirty-eight-year-old version. She remembered noticing how she had changed when the newspapers ran those photos on the first-year anniversary, that her face had shifted irrevocably. It wasn't age or grief, but something more profound, almost as if she'd been in an accident and the bones in her face had been put back together again, leaving it similar to what it had once been, but vaguely off.

The elevators were frustratingly slow, as she had learned on her own descent, and the wait in the lobby seemed interminable. But, at last, Infante and Nancy got off the elevator, flanking a slight, blond woman, holding her loosely by the elbows. Her head was tilted forward, so it was hard to see her face, but Miriam studied her-Ruth, was that it?-as best as she could, took in the narrow shoulders, the slim hips, the comically youthful trousers, so wrong for a woman verging on middle age. If she were my daughter, Miriam thought, she'd have better taste than that.

The woman looked up, and Miriam caught her eye. Miriam didn't mean to hold the gaze, but she found she couldn't turn away. Slowly she rose, blocking the path of the trio, clearly unnerving Infante and Nancy. This was not part of the plan. She was to sit and watch, nothing more. She had promised. They probably thought she was going to slap or push her, spit imprecations at the latest charlatan to appropriate Miriam's life story for her own amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Mi-Ma'am," Infante said, correcting himself, protecting her name. "We're escorting a prisoner. It's only because of her injury that she's not in handcuffs. Please stand back."

Miriam ignored him, taking the woman's left hand in hers, squeezing it as if to say, This won't hurt a bit, then pushing up the sleeve of the cardigan sweater she wore, careful not to disturb the bandaged forearm. On the upper arm, she found the mark she sought, the splayed and oh-so-faint scar of a vaccination that had been burst by the helpful application of a flyswatter, missing the fly but scattering pus and blood, creating a wound that had taken weeks to heal, a scab that had been picked continually despite all admonitions to leave it alone, that such picking would leave a permanent blemish. There it was, a ghostly mark, so faint that no one else would notice it. In fact, it was possible that it wasn't even there, but Miriam believed she saw it, so she did.