What The Dead Know Part 7

"You mean-" f.u.c.k me.

"Right. The dental records include exactly one set of X-rays, taken when Sunny was nine and Heather was six. And that's it."

No adult dental records, no blood information on record, not even type. Infante didn't have the tools he would have expected to have in 1975, much less 2005.

"Any advice?" he asked, putting the lid back on the box.

"If your Jane Doe's story doesn't fall apart in the face of the information in the file, then find Miriam and bring her back. I'd put everything on her maternal instincts."

Yeah, and you'd probably like to get a look at your old crush, you being a widower and all.

"Anything else?"

Willoughby shook his head. "No, I have to-If you knew what I felt, just looking at that box. It isn't healthy. It's all I can do to let you walk out of here with it, not to beg to come along to the hospital with you and interrogate the woman. I know so much about these girls, about their lives, especially that last day. In some ways, I'm surer of the facts of their lives than I am of my own. Maybe I know them too well. Wouldn't it be something if a pair of fresh eyes saw something that had been staring me in the face all those years ago?"

"Look, I'll keep you in the loop. If you like. Up or down, I'll call you, tell you how it turns out."

"Okay," he said in a tone that suggested he wasn't at all sure that was okay, and Infante felt as if he were pressing a drink on a guy who swore he needed to quit but could never quite manage it. He probably should leave the guy be, if possible. He thought he would have been more intrigued, having the old case resurface. But Willoughby looked out the window, studying the sky, seemingly more interested in the weather than the long-gone Bethany girls.

CHAPTER 14.

"Heather..."

"Yes, Kay?"

Heather's face filled with light at the sound of her name. Just hearing it was a homecoming, a reunion. Why had it been denied to her for so long? Where could she have been, what could have happened to her that she didn't, couldn't, reclaim her ident.i.ty years ago?

"I hate to do this, but there's so much that has to be straightened out. A discharge plan, insurance-"

"I do have insurance. I do. The hospital will be paid. But I just can't tell you yet the account, the ID number."

"Sure, I understand." Kay paused, thinking about what she'd said, something she said every day, a phrase others used all the time. It was automatic. It was also seldom true. "Actually, I don't understand, Heather." That little beam of resurrection again. "Whatever happened, you're clearly the victim here. Are you frightened? Are you trying to hide from someone? Perhaps you'd like to speak to someone on the psychiatric staff, someone with experience in post-traumatic stress disorder."

"I talked to someone." Heather made a face. "Strange little man."

Kay couldn't disagree with that a.s.sessment of Schumeier. "He administered a basic psych exam. But if you'd like to explore other...issues, I could arrange that."

Heather's smile was mirthless, mocking. "You speak sometimes as if you ran the hospital, as if the doctors did what you told them to do."

"No, not exactly, it's just that I've been here so long, almost twenty years, and worked in so many departments..." Kay was stammering as if she'd been caught in a lie, or at least in the very act of self-aggrandizement that Heather was suggesting. The initial psych report had indicated that Heather was sane by clinical definition, but not particularly empathetic or interested in people. Yet she noticed things, Kay was beginning to realize, picked up subtle details quickly. Strange little man. That was Schumeier in a nutsh.e.l.l. You speak sometimes as if you ran the hospital. She noticed things and used them against people.

Gloria Bustamante sailed in, the usual physical wreck, but her eyes bright and focused.

"What are we talking about?" she asked, settling in the room's only chair. Her voice was brisk and not a little acidic.

"Discharge," Kay said.

"Kay," Heather said.

"An interesting topic," Gloria said. "Discharge, I mean. Not Kay. Although Kay is fascinating in her own right." Was her smile faintly lascivious? Had she misunderstood Kay's solicitation of this favor? Did anyone really know what Gloria's s.e.xual orientation was, or were the rumors about her as groundless as the things said about Kay behind her back?

"I hit my head," Heather said. Petulant now, her pouting-child act. "I fractured a bone in my forearm. Why can't I stay in the hospital?"

Gloria shook her head. "Sweetie, you could have your head amputated and they'd be trying to get you out of this costly little bed, which they bill at the same rate as a suite at the Ritz-Carlton. And given that you won't tell us your insurance carrier, the hospital is all the more desperate to get rid of you, lest they be stuck with the bill."

"Indigent patients mean higher board costs for all," Kay said, registering her own priggish tone. "It really is a waste of a bed. Under normal circ.u.mstances a patient such as Heather might have been kept overnight for observation, because of the head injury. But there's no medical reason for her to remain here, and the issue needs to be resolved."

"Everyone's clock is ticking," Gloria said. "The hospital's, mine. The only person not worried about billing right now is Detective Kevin Infante. He told me this morning that if Heather declines to go before a grand jury, she could be held on the hit-and-run. The best I can do is push for home detention."

Heather jerked up in bed, wincing in pain as she did so. "Where-not jail, not police custody. I'd die. I'd absolutely die."

"Not to worry," Gloria a.s.sured her. "I pointed out to the police that it would be disastrous, publicity-wise, to lock up the missing Bethany sister."

"But I don't want any publicity, so how can you use this as leverage?"

"I know that. You know that." A sideways glance at Kay. "And now she knows that, for better or worse. I'm going to trust you not to run and tattle, Kay. I came here as a favor to you, so you owe me that much."

"I would never-"

Gloria plowed on, indifferent to what Kay had to say. It would be interesting to know what a psych exam on Gloria Bustamante might reveal.

"The boy is not that badly injured, as it turns out. It looked awful, apparently, and they were worried about a spinal injury, but he's been moved from Shock Trauma to ICU already."

"The boy?" Heather asked, brow furrowed.

"In the SUV that tipped over after you sideswiped it."

"But I saw a girl-I was so sure that I saw a girl, a girl in rabbit-fur earm.u.f.fs...."

"There was no girl in the car," Gloria said. "It was a little boy who was taken to Shock Trauma."

Heather sat up straighter in bed. "And I didn't sideswipe anyone. The driver of the SUV hit me, and he overreacted. It's not my fault."

"That's an easier case to make," Gloria said dryly, "when you don't flee the scene and leave your damaged car on the roadside. But we're going to chalk that up to the head injury, try the Halle Berry defense."

"Who?" Kay asked, and the other two women regarded her as if she were genuinely freakish.

Gloria perched on a corner of Heather's bed. "The more pressing problem is that the police continue to insist that you're required to provide the name and address under which your driver's license was issued. Without those, you can be jailed in connection with the accident. So far, I've managed to persuade them that your potential as a material witness trumps your role as a defendant in a highway collision that was really no one's fault. But they're getting restless. We need to throw them a few facts to satiate them. How long has it been since you were Heather, Heather?"

She closed her eyes. Her skin was so fair and the lids so thin that it appeared as if she were wearing blue-pink eye shadow, lightly applied.

"Heather disappeared thirty years ago. The last time I changed names-it's been sixteen years. My longest stretch yet. I've been this me longer than I've been any other me."

"Penelope Jackson?" Kay asked, knowing of the name the patrol cop had used when Heather was admitted Tuesday night.

"No," Heather said sharply, eyes flying open. "I am not Penelope Jackson. I don't even know Penelope Jackson."

"Then how-"

Gloria held up a hand to stave off Kay's questions, and it was impossible not to notice how ragged her manicure was, how dull her diamond rings were. A piece of jewelry must be very dirty indeed if Kay's eyes registered it as dull.

"Kay, I trust you, I do. And I need your help. But you have to respect boundaries. There are some things that must remain, for now, between Heather and me. If-always if, understand that I am speaking speculatively for now-Heather obtained her current ident.i.ty illegally, then I'm going to argue she's ent.i.tled to protect that information under the Fifth Amendment-no self-incrimination. She's trying to protect her life and I'm trying to protect her rights."

"Fine. But it's harder to help if I don't have sufficient information."

Gloria smiled, not buying it. "I don't need a second chair, Kay. I need someone who can guarantee housing for Heather while this is being straightened out. Housing and, perhaps, public a.s.sistance, short term."

Kay did not bother to ask why Gloria couldn't lend her client money or take her into her home. Such things would have been anathema to the attorney, who had already violated her own standards by taking a case without a big fat retainer up front.

"Gloria, you are so out of the loop. There hasn't been financial a.s.sistance for single adults in Maryland since...s.h.i.t, the early 1990s. And to qualify for anything, you need papers. Birth certificate, Social Security."

"What about a victims' a.s.sistance network? Isn't there some advocacy group we could plug Heather into?"

"They specialize in emotional support, not financial."

"This is what the police are counting on," Gloria said. "Heather Bethany has no money, nowhere to go-except jail. In order to prevent that, she has to reveal where she's been living, what she's been doing. But Heather doesn't want to do that."

Heather shook her head. "At this point the life I've made for myself is all I have."

"You have to see," Kay said, "how impossible that will be."

"Why?" A child's question, asked in a child's tone.

Gloria answered. "The Bethany case is the kind of thing that attracts a lot of attention."

"But I've already told you that I don't want to be that girl."

Foolishly, Kay couldn't help thinking of the old television show, Marlo Thomas with her enormous eyes and shiny bangs, a small-town girl breezing through the big city. Now there was a name she knew.

"You don't want to be who you are?" Gloria asked.

"I don't want to go back to the life I managed to make for myself and have everyone treat me like some freak, the girl of the moment-the runaway bride, the Central Park jogger, whoever. Look, it took a lot for me to get to a place of even seminormalcy. I was taken from my parents when I was a kid. I saw...things. I didn't finish college, I drifted through a lot of jobs before I found one that suits me, allows me to have the kind of life that everyone takes for granted."

"Heather, not to be cra.s.s, but there will be financial opportunities for you, if you choose to pursue them. Your story is a commodity." Gloria's smile was wry. "At least I a.s.sume it is. I've taken it on faith that you are who you say you are."

"I am. Ask me anything about my family. Dave Bethany, son of Felicia Bethany, abandoned by her husband early in the marriage. She worked as a waitress at the old Pimlico Restaurant, and she preferred to be called 'Bop-Bop' instead of anything grandmotherly. She retired to Florida, to the Orlando area. We visited her every year, but we never went to Disney World because my father didn't approve of it. My dad was born in 1934 and died, I think, in 1989. At least, that's when his phone was cut off." She rushed on, as if fearful of letting anyone else speak or ask questions. "Of course I kept tabs. My mother, Miriam, must have died, too, because there's no trace of her. Maybe that has something to do with her being Canadian. At any rate, there's no record of her, not anywhere I checked, so I a.s.sumed she was dead."

"Your mother was Canadian?" Kay echoed back stupidly, even as Gloria said, "But your mother is alive, Heather. At least that's what the detective thinks. She was living in Mexico five years ago, and they're trying to track her now."

"My mother's...alive?" The collision of emotions in Heather's face was strangely beautiful, like one of those thunder bursts in the middle of a sunny summer day, the kind that made old women nod and say: The devil must be beating his wife. Kay had never seen grief and joy in such extremes, trying to coexist in the same place. The joy she could understand. Here was Heather Bethany, thinking herself an orphan, with nothing to claim but a name and tabloid tale. Yet her mother was alive. She was not alone.

But there was anger, too, the skepticism of someone who trusted no one.

"Are you sure?" Heather demanded. "You say she was in Mexico five years ago, but are you sure she's alive now?"

"The original detective seemed to think so, but it's true, they haven't found her yet."

"And if they do find her..."

"They'll probably bring her here." Gloria made a point of capturing Heather's eyes in hers, holding the look. It was a snake charmer's gaze, if one could imagine a mildly exasperated snake charmer in a rumpled knit suit. "Once she's here, Heather, they'll want to do DNA tests. You understand, you get where this is going?"

"I'm not lying." Her voice was dull and listless, as if to suggest that lying was simply too much effort. "When will she get here?"

"It all depends on when they find her and what they tell her when they do." Gloria turned to Kay. "Can't the hospital keep Heather until, say, her mother arrives? I'm sure she'll be happy to put her up."

"It's impossible, Gloria. She has to leave today. The administration is very clear on that."

"You're playing into the police's hands, giving them the leverage they want to rush this thing through, force Heather on to their timetable. If she's discharged without a plan, they're going to put her in jail-"

Heather moaned, an unearthly, inhuman sound.

"What about House of Ruth? Can't she go there?"

"It's a battered-women's shelter, and you know as well as I do that it's full up."

"I was abused," Heather said. "Doesn't that count for something?"

"You're talking about thirty years ago, right?" Kay felt that rush of unbecoming prurience, the desire to know exactly what had happened to this woman. "I hardly think-"

"Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay." Even as her words seemed to promise agreement, Heather swung her head vehemently side to side, so her blond curls, short as they were, bounced and shook. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you, and you'll know why I can't go to jail, why I can't trust these people not to hurt me."

"Not in front of Kay," Gloria commanded, but Heather was wound up now, impossible to stop. She doesn't know I'm here, Kay thought. Or she knows but doesn't care. Was it trust or indifference, a vote of confidence or a reminder that Kay was of no significance to her?

"It was a policeman, okay? A policeman came to me and said something had happened to my sister and I needed to come quick. And I went, and that was how he got both of us. First her, then me. He locked us in the back of the van and took us."

"A man pretending to be a cop," Gloria clarified.

"Not pretending. A real police officer, from right here in Baltimore, from the county, with a badge and everything. Although he wasn't wearing a uniform-but policemen didn't always wear uniforms. Michael Douglas and Karl Malden-The Streets of San Francisco-they didn't wear uniforms. He was a policeman, and he said everything would be all right, and I believed him. That's the only real mistake I ever made, believing that man, and it ruined my life."

With that final word, life, some long-held emotion was released and Heather began crying with such raw force that Gloria reared back from her, unsure of what to do. What could Kay do, what would any feeling person do, but reach around Gloria and try to comfort Heather, remembering to be especially gentle, given the temporary splint on the left forearm, the general all-over soreness left by a car accident.

"We'll work something out," she said. "We'll find a place for you. I know someone-a family in my neighborhood, away for spring break. At the very least, you can stay there for a few days."

"No police," Heather choked out. "No jail."

"Of course not," Kay said, catching Gloria's eyes to see if she approved of Kay's solution. But Gloria was smiling, smug and triumphant.

"Now this," the attorney said, her tongue darting over her lower lip, as close to a literal smacking as Kay had ever seen, "this gives us leverage."