match.”
“What’s the exact?”
“Sissy Marie Warwick. Born September fourth, nineteen fifty-seven. Died on the same date in nineteen seventy-two. Cause of death: leukemia. Buried in the Cemetery of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, Allentown, Pennsylvania. Grave number one-one-two-six-seven. Survived by siblings Robert and Allen and parents Rose and Alfred.” He pondered the ignominy of dying on one’s birthday as he listened to the sound of the keyboard. “We have an anomaly,” she announced. “Also in September of nineteen seventy-two, six days after the DOD, Sissy Marie Warwick requested and was granted an official copy of her birth certificate.”
“Six days after her death.”
“Yes sir.”
“Neat trick.”
“On September eleventh of that same year, she was issued a duplicate Social Security card.” More typing could be heard. “A data gap follows,” the voice said.
“Being dead will do that,” Corso said.
“The name reappears. Nineteen seventy-three, Avalon, Wisconsin. A person of that same name and birth date marries one Eldred Holmes, together they produce—”
“That’s enough,” Corso said. “Anything after Avalon?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Before he could ask another question, she said, “I have been instructed to inform you that recent events have created a situation where no further queries will be accepted from your access code.”
“I understand.”
“You will need to decommission your present sending unit.”
“Of course.”
Dial tone. He bounced the phone in the palm of his hand as he walked across the frozen gravel. Dougherty was signing the credit card receipt when he arrived. The kid handed her a copy and then hurried back to the warmth of the station office. She waited until the kid closed the door. “The credit card worked.”
“I told you. They’re real.”
Her face said she wasn’t convinced. “You wanna drive?” she asked.
“Not particularly,” Corso said. “You all right with it?”
“Sure. Where to?”
He thought it over. “East,” he said finally. “Pennsylvania.”
Dougherty climbed into the driver’s seat. Corso walked around the front of the car. He stopped for a moment, bent at the waist, and placed something in front of the passenger-side tire. The Ford’s engine roared to life. He got into the passenger seat and fastened his seat belt. Dougherty dropped the Ford into Drive. A loud snap cut through the night air.
“What was that?” she asked.
“What?”
“It felt like we ran over something.”
“We did.”
“What?”
“Your phone.”
I don’t care what she says. I don’t care what anybody says. Life is supposed to be fair. Things are supposed to work out right. Otherwise there’d be no reason for going on, would there? Might as well throw yourself in the ground if things were that out of hand. Problem is…most people just sit around and wait for good things to happen to them. Like life is something jumps on your back, insteada the other way around. It’s always the dried-up ones like Mama May—they’re the ones always telling little kids life isn’t fair. ’Cause that’s what they gotta believe, or else they gotta look at their own lives and blame somethin’ other than bad luck for why they never in their whole lives got anyplace near their dreams. Gotta tell themselves that successful people they don’t like just got lucky. All that talk of righteousness is hooey. People just do what’s easiest. Then they repent. It’s like the Nature Channel. Only the strong survive.
13
W hat kind of goddamn street name is that?” she groused.
Corso read it out loud again. “Mauch Chunk Road.”
“What in hell’s a Mauch Chunk?”
Corso laughed. “A small piece of a larger Mauch, I guess.”
Dougherty braked the Ford to a stop. Nothing but guardrail straight ahead. Perma Avenue angled off to the right. Girard Avenue to the left. The white Lincoln Continental that had been riding their rear bumper for the
“What’s the exact?”
“Sissy Marie Warwick. Born September fourth, nineteen fifty-seven. Died on the same date in nineteen seventy-two. Cause of death: leukemia. Buried in the Cemetery of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, Allentown, Pennsylvania. Grave number one-one-two-six-seven. Survived by siblings Robert and Allen and parents Rose and Alfred.” He pondered the ignominy of dying on one’s birthday as he listened to the sound of the keyboard. “We have an anomaly,” she announced. “Also in September of nineteen seventy-two, six days after the DOD, Sissy Marie Warwick requested and was granted an official copy of her birth certificate.”
“Six days after her death.”
“Yes sir.”
“Neat trick.”
“On September eleventh of that same year, she was issued a duplicate Social Security card.” More typing could be heard. “A data gap follows,” the voice said.
“Being dead will do that,” Corso said.
“The name reappears. Nineteen seventy-three, Avalon, Wisconsin. A person of that same name and birth date marries one Eldred Holmes, together they produce—”
“That’s enough,” Corso said. “Anything after Avalon?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Before he could ask another question, she said, “I have been instructed to inform you that recent events have created a situation where no further queries will be accepted from your access code.”
“I understand.”
“You will need to decommission your present sending unit.”
“Of course.”
Dial tone. He bounced the phone in the palm of his hand as he walked across the frozen gravel. Dougherty was signing the credit card receipt when he arrived. The kid handed her a copy and then hurried back to the warmth of the station office. She waited until the kid closed the door. “The credit card worked.”
“I told you. They’re real.”
Her face said she wasn’t convinced. “You wanna drive?” she asked.
“Not particularly,” Corso said. “You all right with it?”
“Sure. Where to?”
He thought it over. “East,” he said finally. “Pennsylvania.”
Dougherty climbed into the driver’s seat. Corso walked around the front of the car. He stopped for a moment, bent at the waist, and placed something in front of the passenger-side tire. The Ford’s engine roared to life. He got into the passenger seat and fastened his seat belt. Dougherty dropped the Ford into Drive. A loud snap cut through the night air.
“What was that?” she asked.
“What?”
“It felt like we ran over something.”
“We did.”
“What?”
“Your phone.”
I don’t care what she says. I don’t care what anybody says. Life is supposed to be fair. Things are supposed to work out right. Otherwise there’d be no reason for going on, would there? Might as well throw yourself in the ground if things were that out of hand. Problem is…most people just sit around and wait for good things to happen to them. Like life is something jumps on your back, insteada the other way around. It’s always the dried-up ones like Mama May—they’re the ones always telling little kids life isn’t fair. ’Cause that’s what they gotta believe, or else they gotta look at their own lives and blame somethin’ other than bad luck for why they never in their whole lives got anyplace near their dreams. Gotta tell themselves that successful people they don’t like just got lucky. All that talk of righteousness is hooey. People just do what’s easiest. Then they repent. It’s like the Nature Channel. Only the strong survive.
13
W hat kind of goddamn street name is that?” she groused.
Corso read it out loud again. “Mauch Chunk Road.”
“What in hell’s a Mauch Chunk?”
Corso laughed. “A small piece of a larger Mauch, I guess.”
Dougherty braked the Ford to a stop. Nothing but guardrail straight ahead. Perma Avenue angled off to the right. Girard Avenue to the left. The white Lincoln Continental that had been riding their rear bumper for the
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