Laura didn't want to spell out the importance of their meeting, not with Brett in earshot. "What's the problem? You said we can stay for the night."

There was a pause as Jenny muttered something inaudible. Then she seemed to find herself. "Some other time. Abigail is sick in bed, and the doctors said no visitors because her resistance is low to infection."

"What's wrong with her?"

"Ooops. I have to go," Jenny declared and hung up.

So Brett wouldn't suspect anything, Laura continued to fake conversation. "I see, well I'll drop by myself then. I hope she gets better soon. We should be there about three. Bye-bye."

Roger looked at Laura for an explanation.

"Abigail's sick."

"So where we going to stay?"

"I don't know."

Around two-thirty they reached the driveway of number 247 Farmington Road, Prairie, Indiana.

Roger drove by, then circled back looking for signs of police. The nearest house, about a quarter mile away, looked dead. But that didn't satisfy Roger. He found a back road behind Jenny's place to check for signs of a stakeout. There were none. It was farming country consisting of open fields of low-growing corn and wheat, and devoid of human life.

Roger pulled into the driveway. From a distance it looked like a Jenny place-a neat little farmhouse in pink and green located at the end of a long drive set back in some trees from the main road and miles from the festering social diseases of big-city America.

But up close, shutters were broken, shingles were missing, half the chimney had lost bricks, and the paint had faded to a yellowy flesh color and was peeling badly. The place looked diseased. The lawn hadn't been cut in weeks. Yet, beside the garage was a small power mower-one that looked manageable by Jenny or a teenage girl.

The plan was for Laura to find out what the story was with Jenny while Roger drove Brett to a store for provisions. If there was a problem, they had a police scanner and cell phones. Jenny was irrational, but not enough to blow the whistle on her own private savior.

Roger pulled up to the front door. All the shades were drawn. No sign of Jenny. No sign of life.

Laura got out and went to the door. A small handwritten note on the bell said OUT OF ORDER. Another said NO SOLICITORS.

Taped to the door was an envelope on which in small fastidious script was the name "Wendy."

Furious that Jenny had posted her name, Laura tore open the envelope. Inside was a note in tiny meticulous handwriting done in pink: "Please leave orchids in mailbox. Good Luck."

That was it? Laura thought. Drive sixteen bloody hours with every law enforcement agency on their ass, and what Jenny wanted was for them to drop the stuff off then beat it. Find a motel someplace or hole up in a cornfield. No way! If Jenny was dumb enough to plaster her name up, what else would she pull?

Laura banged on the door.

Nothing.

And standing in the open like this only heightened her anxiety. She waved for Roger and Brett to wait in the car, then went around back.

The kitchen door was also locked. But one window was open and the screen was up a few inches so she could get her fingers under it.

Laura slid up the window. Then she went around front and waved Roger and Brett off. Around back again, she climbed inside.

The immediate impression was how dark and lifeless the place was-like a house whose occupants were away on vacation.

Although the curtains were drawn, the small kitchen appeared tidy. It was done in white and pink. Magazine pictures of kittens were magneted to the refrigerator. Also some baby photos.

On the table sat a bowl of overripe fruit with some tiny black flies buzzing around it. Beside the bowl was a small pile of mail. On the top sat an electric bill addressed to Jennifer Phoenix, 247 Farmington Road. Under that were other bills and some toy catalogs all made out to Jennifer Phoenix.

Jennifer Phoenix?

Laura was shocked. Jenny had changed her name and never told them. How many years had it been? And why?

Feeling a hum of uneasiness, Laura moved to the dim front foyer to call upstairs when she glanced into the living room. Her heart nearly stopped.

It was decorated for Christmas.

By the fireplace sat a large artificial tree fully decked with bulbs, icicles, and lights. Opened presents lay in boxes on the floor. By the fireplace sat a large pink doll-house, its rooms neatly laid out in miniature furniture and figures. It was a vague replica of Jenny's own house. The fireplace mantle was decorated in colored candles and artificial pine and big red Santas. Over the mantle hung a pastel portrait of Abigail as a young child.

Across the foyer, the dining room was decorated for a birthday party, but it must have been from a while ago because some of the colored streamers criss-crossing the ceiling had come loose and most of the balloons had deflated. A partially-eaten cake sat in the middle of the table around which were several chairs, all but two occupied by large stuffed bunnies, bears, and kangaroos.

A sick chill rippled through Laura.

From the second floor she heard a faint sound. A tinkling, barely audible.

She moved toward the stairs and froze. She had heard it before. The same high metallic plinkings, almost like windchimes.

Music. Background sounds in their last telephone conversation. "Frere Jacques." The tune was "Frere Jacques."

An irrational sense of dread gripped her as she began to climb the stairs. The music box Jenny had bought in Boston years ago.

"Her first Christmas present."

A few more steps, and she could hear Jenny singing softly.

"…Morning bells are ringing. Morning bells are ringing. Ding, Dang, Dong. Ding, Dang, Dong."

She reached the door.

Inside Jenny said: "Now in French…"

"'Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques, Dormez vous? Dormez vous?…'"

The door was decaled in cartoon animals. A porcelain plaque in big happy letters said ABIGAIL'S ROOM.

A second voice sent a shard of ice through Laura's heart. A voice small and thin and singing along with Jenny.

Laura swung open the door.

"'…Sonnez les matines. Sonnez les matines. Din, Don, Din. Din, Don, Din.'"

Jenny looked up, her face in a radiant smile. She was sitting in a rocking chair holding a small child.

In a telescoped moment of awareness, Laura registered the silky blond hair, the brown liquid eyes, the ruddy porcelain cheeks. The pink flowered dress from the photos.

"We're singing in French," Abigail proudly announced.

Horror surged through Laura. The room was a mausoleum of little girlhood: Bunny wallpaper, pink lace curtains, stuffed animals, dolls, a big pink toddler bed, pillows mounded with stuffed kittens and Raggedy Anns. A white decaled bureau with ballerina figurines and the big red music box that filled the room with its soulless ditty.

"Ooooo, look," Jenny sang out. "It's Auntie Wendy. How nice. And she brought you your medicine."

"Jenny!" Laura gasped.

"Oh, of course: And this is Abigail. I forgot how long it's been." Jenny beamed.

"Hi, Auntie Wendy. You look like your picture," the child said. She opened a small photo album from the shelf. "Your hair is different, but it's very flattering. I like it better." Her pronunciation was perfect.

"We have lots of pictures," Jenny piped in proudly.

"Do you know how to speak French?" Abigail asked.

Laura's mind scrambled to land on something that made sense: The girl was somebody else, not Jenny's daughter.

No, Jenny had adopted another child but had not told her for some reason.

No, it was Abigail, but she had some growth disorder-some awful disease that had stunted her limbs.