A Blind Eye by G. M. Ford Page B

shiver brought Corso to a halt, as a waking dream flickered before his eyes. As if looking through layers of gauze, he saw the thin, wavy shadow of a girl, hands clasped, hair blowing in the wind. Before he could move or speak, she turned her head his way, widened her hollow eyes, and then, as the wind gusted again, she was gone. He blinked twice, then turned away, embarrassed by his sudden flight of fancy.
    Dougherty had her hood up. She rocked on her heels as she gazed toward the gathering sunset. He was relieved. She hadn’t seen. Corso pulled his coat close around his body and hunched his shoulders.
    “She stood right here,” he said.
    “Who?”
    “The new Sissy Warwick.” He made an expansive gesture with his hand.
    “She stood right here somewhere. Saw this head-stone and read those words and decided that Sissy Warwick was going to be her new name.”
    Dougherty thought it over. “You think maybe she even saw the burial?”
    “That’s an interesting thought, now isn’t it,” he mused, looking around. “Maybe from a distance,” he said. “Maybe over there behind that oak thicket.” He walked in a slow circle. “Yeah…I’ll bet she did. That feels right to me.” He turned to Dougherty. “This was a person with a plan already in place. Less than a week after the real Sissy Marie went in the ground, somebody was already using her identity to get a birth certificate and a Social Security card.”
    “But how can we be sure she’s the same Sissy Marie Warwick who shows up in Avalon, Wisconsin, a year later?”
    “The woman in Avalon used the same birth certificate and Social Security number when she married Eldred Holmes a year or so later.”
    She eyed him hard. “How do you know that?”
    “The sheriff told me,” he said quickly.
    Her expression said she didn’t believe him, but “Weird” was all she said.
    “What’s weird is that it pretty much had to be a kid.”
    She frowned.
    “Think about it,” Corso said. “The real Sissy Warwick died on her fifteenth birthday. It stands to reason that whoever decided to take over her identity had to be somewhere in the vicinity of her age. Probably had to be a little older, rather than younger. You get much younger than fifteen, and I start to have doubts about your ability to put the thing together.”
    “A kid, huh?”
    “Don’t see how it could be any other way,” he said.
    Dougherty didn’t argue. Instead she slipped her arm through his. “Let’s go,” she said, tugging gently on his elbow. “Color me silly, but I don’t want to be standing out in the middle of a graveyard when it gets dark.”
    Arm in arm, they began to wind their way among the graves. No straight lines here. No military precision. The arrangement of the graves was haphazard, as if the stones and bones had been scooped into a giant hand and rolled out like dice.
    This was the final resting place of the city builders. If they were Catholic, they ended up here. Rich and poor. Old and young. Slag skimmers and steel barons alike. Simple stone plaques covered with debris lay scant feet from ornate family mausoleums whose baroque marble angels, green and grimy with age, looked down upon the less fortunate with eternal disdain.
    Fresh flowers decorated occasional graves, but most were grown over and ragged, as if the dead had been forgotten. On Corso’s left, a fallen headstone lay in the grass, its uprooted base festooned with spidery roots and a weathered one-eyed Pooh Bear. Against the black of the upturned earth the remains of Mylar balloons gleamed slack and silver in the waning light.
    The grass upon which they trod was a thick, spongy mat of leaves and dead, frozen grass. To the south, the hill fell away. Allentown now rested beneath the pall of blue smoke rising from its chimneys, spreading over the peaks and valleys of the rooftops like dirty cotton.
    “What next?” Dougherty asked.
    Corso thought it over as they walked. “I guess we lay hands on the local phone