What the Dead Know Read online

  WHAT THE DEAD KNOW

  LAURA LIPPMAN

  For Sally Fellows and Doris Ann Norris

  The living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing; they have no more reward, and even the memory of them is lost.

  Their love and their hate and their envy have already perished; never again will they have any share in all that happens under the sun.

  —ECCLESIASTES 9:5–6

  Contents

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER 1

  Her stomach clutched at the sight of the water tower…

  PART I

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER 2

  “That your phone?”

  CHAPTER 3

  The young doctor took a long time picking his pastry,…

  CHAPTER 4

  Infante took the as-the-crow-flies route to the hospital, traveling straight…

  CHAPTER 5

  A radio was playing somewhere. Or perhaps it was a…

  PART II

  THE MAN WITH THE BLUE GUITAR (1975)

  CHAPTER 6

  “Take your sister,” their father said, in both girls’ hearing,…

  CHAPTER 7

  There was a vending machine in the motel room, actually…

  CHAPTER 8

  The bus shelter on Forest Park Avenue was a more…

  CHAPTER 9

  Woodlawn Avenue was busier than usual the Saturday before Easter,…

  CHAPTER 10

  “You were supposed to stay away from me,” Sunny hissed…

  PART III

  THURSDAY

  CHAPTER 11

  “The thing is,” Infante said to Lenhardt, “she doesn’t look…

  CHAPTER 12

  “Buenos días, Señora Toles.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Infante’s momentum, so strong all day, faltered at the driveway…

  CHAPTER 14

  “Heather…”

  CHAPTER 15

  One more night. One more night. Everyone had said she…

  PART IV

  PRAJAPATAYE SVAHA. PRAJAPATAYE IDAM NA MAMA. (1976)

  CHAPTER 16

  Sunset fast approaching, Dave grabbed the ghee from the refrigerator…

  CHAPTER 17

  Alone at last—alone again, naturally, as the song would have…

  CHAPTER 18

  It had taken a lot of begging and promising and…

  PART V

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER 19

  “I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Heather wrinkled up her nose the moment she crossed the…

  CHAPTER 21

  Babies floated across the computer screen. No, not babies plural…

  CHAPTER 22

  “You sure you’ll be fine?”

  CHAPTER 23

  And, finally, the phone rang.

  PART VI

  PHONEMATES (1983)

  CHAPTER 24

  The telephone rang at 6:30 A.M. and Dave grabbed the…

  CHAPTER 25

  Miriam had a secret love—butter pecan yogurt from I Can’t…

  CHAPTER 26

  “You think faster than the cash register,” said Randy, the…

  PART VII

  SATURDAY

  CHAPTER 27

  Brunswick, Georgia, smelled. At first Infante tried to chalk it…

  CHAPTER 28

  “The thing is, we could really use your help.”

  CHAPTER 29

  The blankness of her passport reminded Miriam how immobile she…

  CHAPTER 30

  “Do you think this will finish it?” Heather asked, staring…

  CHAPTER 31

  The business section of St. Simons—the “village,” according to a…

  CHAPTER 32

  “You want a better chair?”

  CHAPTER 33

  “Sunny told me that I could go to the mall…

  PART VIII

  THINGS AS THEY ARE (1989)

  CHAPTER 34

  The last leg of Miriam’s trip to language school was…

  CHAPTER 35

  “Barb, I lost my story!”

  CHAPTER 36

  “Because she was adopted, you know?”

  PART IX

  SUNDAY

  CHAPTER 37

  “We can lie about the bones,” Infante said.

  CHAPTER 38

  Lenhardt was still trying to figure out the tip for…

  CHAPTER 39

  Kay’s dining room had a set of French doors that…

  CHAPTER 40

  “We could show her to you, on the closed-circuit video,”…

  CHAPTER 41

  The wheels on the bus go round and round, round…

  PART X

  SWADHAYAYA

  CHAPTER 42

  The moment that Kevin Infante crossed the threshold at Nancy…

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Other Books by Laura Lippman

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  Her stomach clutched at the sight of the water tower hovering above the still, bare trees, a spaceship come to earth. The water tower had been a key landmark in the old family game, although not the landmark. Once you spotted the white disk on its spindly legs, you knew it was time to prepare, like a runner crouched in blocks. On your mark, get set, I see—

  It hadn’t started as a game. Spotting the department store nestled in this bend of the Beltway had been a private contest with herself, a way to relieve the tedium of the two-day drive home from Florida. As far back as she could remember, they had made the trip every winter break, although no one in the family enjoyed this visit to Grandmother’s house. Her Orlando apartment was cramped and smelly, her dogs mean, her meals inedible. Everyone was miserable, even their father, especially their father, although he pretended not to be and took great offense if anyone suggested that his mother was any of the things that she undeniably was—stingy, strange, unkind. Still, even he couldn’t hide his relief as home drew nearer and he sang out each state line as they crossed. Georgia, he growled in a Ray Charles moan. They spent the night there, in a no-name motor court, and left before sunrise, quickly reaching South Carolina—“Nothing could be finah!”—followed by the long, slow teases of North Carolina and Virginia, where the only points of interest were, respectively, the lunch stop in Durham and the dancing cigarette packs on the billboards outside Richmond. Then finally Maryland, wonderful Maryland, home sweet home Maryland, which asked for only fifty miles or so, barely an hour back then. Today she had needed almost twice that much time to crawl up the parkway, but traffic was thinning now, up to normal speeds.

  I see—

  Hutzler’s had been the city’s grandest department store, and it marked the Christmas season by setting up an enormous fake chimney with a Santa poised on its ledge, caught in a perpetual straddle. Was he coming or going? She could never decide. She had taught herself to watch for that flash of red, the promise that home was near, the way certain birds told a sea captain that the shore was within reach. It had been a clandestine ritual, not unlike counting the broken stripes as they disappeared under the front wheels of the car, a practice that quelled the motion sickness she never quite outgrew. Even then, she was tight-lipped when it came to certain information about herself, clear about the distinction between eccentricities that might be interesting and compulsive habits that would mark her as odd as, say, her grandmother. Or, to be absolutely truthful, her father. But the phrase had popped out one day, joyful and unbidden, another secret dialogue with herself escaping into the world:

  “I see Hutzler’s.”r />
  Her father had gotten the significance instantly, unlike her mother and sister. Her father always seemed to understand the layers beneath what she said, which was comforting when she was really little, intimidating as she got older. The problem was that he insisted on turning her private homecoming salute into a game, a contest, and what had once been hers alone then had to be shared with the entire family. Her father was big on sharing, on taking what was private and making it communal. He believed in long, rambling family discussions, which he called “rap sessions” in the language of the day, and unlocked doors and casual seminudity, although their mother had broken him of that habit. If you tried to keep something for yourself—whether it was a bag of candy purchased with your own money or a feeling you didn’t want to express—he accused you of hoarding. He sat you down, looked straight into your eyes, and told you that families didn’t work that way. A family was a team, a unit, a country unto itself, the one part of her identity that would remain constant the rest of her life. “We lock our front door against strangers,” he said, “but never against each other.”

  So he seized “I see Hutzler’s” for the family good and encouraged everyone to vie for the right to say it first. Once the rest of the family decided to play, that last mile of Beltway had been unbearable in its suspense. The sisters craned their necks, leaning forward in the old lap seat belts, the ones worn only on long trips. That’s how things were back then—seat belts for long trips only, no bicycle helmets ever, skateboards made from splintery planks of wood and old roller skates. Pinned by her seat belt, she felt her stomach flip and her pulse race, and for what? For the hollow honor of being the first to say out loud what she had always been the first to think. As with all her father’s contests, there was no prize, no point. Since she could no longer be guaranteed victory, she did what she always did: She pretended not to care.

  Yet here she was again, alone, guaranteed the win if she wanted it, hollow as that victory would be, and her stomach still flipped, unaware that the store was long gone, that everything around the once-familiar cloverleaf had changed. Changed and, yes, cheapened. The placid dowager that had been Hutzler’s was now a tacky Value City. Opposite, on the south side of the highway, the Quality Inn had morphed into one of those storage places. It wasn’t possible from this vantage point to see if Howard Johnson’s, home of the family’s weekly fish-fry suppers, remained at the intersection, but she somehow doubted it. Did Howard Johnson’s exist anywhere anymore? Did she? Yes and no.

  What happened next transpired in seconds. Everything does, if you think about it. She would say that later, under questioning. The Ice Age happened in a matter of seconds; there were just a lot of them. Oh, she could make people love her if absolutely necessary, and although the tactic was less essential to her survival now, the habit was hard to break. Her interrogators pretended exasperation, but she could tell she was having the desired effect on most of them. By then her description of the accident was breathlessly vivid, a polished routine. She had glanced to the right, eastward, trying to recall all her childhood landmarks, forgetting the old admonition Bridges may freeze first, and felt a strange sensation, almost as if the steering wheel were slipping from her grasp, but the car was actually separating from the road, losing traction, although the sleet had not started and the pavement looked bone dry. It was oil, not ice, she would learn later, left from an earlier accident. How could one control for a coating of oil, invisible in the March twilight, for the inactions or incomplete actions of a crew of men she had never met, would never know? Somewhere in Baltimore, a man sat down to supper that night, unaware that he had destroyed someone else’s life, and she envied him his ignorance.

  She clutched the steering wheel and pounded on the pedals, but the car ignored her. The boxy sedan slid to the left, moving like the needle on a haywire tachometer. She bounced off the Jersey wall, spun around, slid to the other side of the highway. For a moment it seemed as if she were the only one driving, as if all the other cars and their drivers had frozen in deference and awe. The old Valiant—the name had seemed a good omen, a reminder of Prince Valiant and all that he stood for, back in the Sunday comics—moved swiftly and gracefully, a dancer among the stolid, earthbound commuters at the tail end of rush hour.

  And then, just when she seemed to have the Valiant under control, when the tires once again connected to the pavement, she felt a soft thump to her right. She had sideswiped a white SUV, and although her car was so much smaller, the SUV seemed to reel from the touch, an elephant felled by a peashooter. She glimpsed a girl’s face, or thought she did, a face with an expression not so much frightened as surprised by the realization that anything could collide with one’s neat, well-ordered life at any time. The girl wore a ski jacket and large, cruelly unflattering glasses, made worse somehow by white fur earmuffs. Her mouth was round, a red gate of wonder. She was twelve, maybe eleven, and eleven was the same age when—and then the white SUV began its lazy flip-flops down the embankment.

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, she thought. She knew she should slow down, stop, check on the SUV, but a chorus of honks and squealing brakes rose up behind her, a phalanx of sound that pushed her forward in spite of herself. It wasn’t my fault! Everyone should know by now that SUVs were prone to tip. Her mild little nudge could never have caused that dramatic-looking accident. Besides, it had been such a long day and she was so close. Her exit was the next one, not even a mile ahead. She could still merge into the I-70 traffic and continue west to her destination.

  But once on the long straightaway toward I-70, she found herself veering right instead of left, toward the sign that read LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY, to that strange, unfinished road that her family had always called the highway to nowhere. How they had gloried in giving directions to their house. “Take the interstate east, to where it ends.” “How can an interstate end?” And her father would triumphantly tell the tale of the protests, the citizens who had united across Baltimore to preserve the park and the wildlife and the then-modest rowhouses that ringed the harbor. It was one of her father’s few successes in life, although he had been a minor player—just another signer of petitions, a marcher in demonstrations. He was never tapped to speak at the public rallies, much as he longed for that role.

  The Valiant was making a terrible sound, the right rear wheel scraping against what must be a crushed fender. In her agitated state, it made perfect sense to park on the shoulder and continue on foot, although the sleet had now started and she became aware with each step that something was wrong. Her ribs hurt so that each breath was like a jab with a tiny knife, and it was hard to carry her purse as she had always been instructed—close to the body, not dangling from her wrist, a temptation for muggers and thieves. She hadn’t been wearing her seat belt, and she had bounced around inside the Valiant, hitting the steering wheel and door. There was blood on her face, but she wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Mouth? Forehead? She was warm, she was cold, she saw black stars. No, not stars. More like triangles twisting and turning, strung from the wires of an invisible mobile.

  She had been walking no more than ten minutes when a patrol car stopped alongside her, lights flashing.

  “That your Valiant back there?” the patrolman called out to her, lowering the window on the passenger side but not venturing from the car.

  Was it? The question was more complicated than the young officer could know. Still, she nodded.

  “You got any ID?”

  “Sure,” she said, digging into her purse but not finding her wallet. Why, that—She started to laugh, realizing how perfect that was. Of course she had no ID. She had no identity, not really. “Sorry. No. I—” She couldn’t stop laughing. “It’s gone.”

  He got out of the patrol car and attempted to take the purse to look for himself. Her scream shocked her even more than it did him. There was a fiery pain in her left forearm when he tried to slide the purse past her elbow. The patrolman spoke into his shoulder, calling for assistance. He pocke
ted her keys from her purse, walked back to her car, and poked around inside, then returned and stood with her in the sleeting rain that had finally started. He mumbled some familiar words to her but was otherwise silent.

  “Is it bad?” she asked him.

  “That’s for a doctor to say when we get you to the ER.”

  “No, not me. Back there.”

  The distant whir of a helicopter answered her question. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But it wasn’t her fault.

  “It wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t control it—but still, I really didn’t do anything—”

  “I’ve read you your rights,” he said. “The things you’re saying—they count. Not that there’s much doubt you left the scene of an accident.”

  “I was going to get help.”

  “This road dead-ends into a park-and-ride. If you really wanted to help them, you’d have pulled over back there or taken the Security Boulevard exit.”

  “There’s the old Windsor Hills Pharmacy at Forest Park and Windsor Mill. I thought I could call from there.”

  She could tell that caught him off guard, her use of precise names, her familiarity with the area.

  “I don’t know of any pharmacy, although there’s a gas station there, but—Don’t you have a cell phone?”

  “Not for my personal use, although I carry one at work. I don’t buy things until they work properly, until they’re perfected. Cell phones lose their connections and people have to yell into them half the time, so you can’t safeguard your privacy. When cells work as well as landlines, I’ll buy one.”