Read Online Stealing Faces by Michael Prescott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Prescott
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better.
“Here we go,” Cray said. “This looks more professional. You were Paula Neilson for a while.” He studied the Colorado driver’s license, the Social Security card, the birth certificate, credit cards, even a voter-registration card, all in Paula Neilson’s name. “These documents are genuine. You got her name from a death roll, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
Knowing that the Ellen Pendleton I.D. would never hold up to scrutiny, she had stopped at a cemetery outside Colorado Springs and found a young woman’s grave. It had been easy to obtain the deceased’s birth certificate from the local department of records; she’d handled the transaction by mail.
With the birth certificate in hand, she had applied for a driver’s license, then obtained a Social Security card and the other items. As Cray had said, all the documents were authentic. For six years she had been Paula Neilson.
“And one more document. Elizabeth Palmer’s birth certificate. Another return from the dead?”
He didn’t want an answer. If he had, and if she could have spoken, she would have told him that Elizabeth Palmer was a name she had made up, and the documents establishing her reality had been created with the aid of a desktop computer, a scanner, and a color printer.
She had done the job herself, during the period in Santa Fe when she did clerical work and had access to the proper equipment. She’d been wary of retaining any one identity for too long.
Later, upon returning to Arizona , she had exchanged her fake New Mexico driver’s license for a genuine one, issued by the Motor Vehicles Division. From that moment forward, she had been Elizabeth Palmer. It was who she was now. It was her real identity, as far as she was concerned.
She had created Elizabeth , and she had become Elizabeth , and she never—never—had been anything else.
Cray would not see it that way, of course. He knew her only from her former life.
He was studying the birth certificate, generated with a desktop publishing program. “ Elizabeth was born on October third, 1967 . Her birthday is coming up. She’ll be thirty-two. I’ll have to remember to send a gift. The other items under Miss Palmer’s name are in your wallet, I suppose.”
She stiffened. She didn’t want him to look in her purse.
He didn’t. He merely shrugged. “Well, you’ve been a busy girl, I’ll give you that.”
Cray dumped the assorted cards and papers back into the envelope, then put the envelope in his satchel.
“I’ll take these with me. Nobody will find them. They would raise too many questions. I don’t intend to have people looking into your disappearance very closely, if at all.”
Rapidly he worked his way toward the bottom of the suitcase, speaking in a low, informal tone.
“I’ve already replaced the set of master keys I stole from the storage closet. The damage to the closet’s lock will be attributed to vandalism. Since nothing was taken, probably the management won’t even bother to file a report.”
He found a favorite book of hers, Watership Down, the one about the rabbits, which she’d bought at a junk sale in Las Cruces and carried with her ever since. Indifferently he riffled the pages, looking for marginal notes or hidden messages. There were none.
“As for your disappearance, I doubt any questions will be raised. In an establishment of this kind, the guests must frequently check out at odd hours. I’ll leave the door unlocked, the room key on the counter with a two-dollar tip. They’ll think you left in a hurry. And they’ll forget you immediately.”
He reached the bottom of the suitcase and took out her photo album. It was a slim spiral-bound volume, only half-filled.
She disliked having her picture taken, for obvious reasons, but at a few parties and picnics over the years she’d been caught on film.
Cray flipped through the sheets of photos, his face unchanging. She wondered what
“Here we go,” Cray said. “This looks more professional. You were Paula Neilson for a while.” He studied the Colorado driver’s license, the Social Security card, the birth certificate, credit cards, even a voter-registration card, all in Paula Neilson’s name. “These documents are genuine. You got her name from a death roll, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
Knowing that the Ellen Pendleton I.D. would never hold up to scrutiny, she had stopped at a cemetery outside Colorado Springs and found a young woman’s grave. It had been easy to obtain the deceased’s birth certificate from the local department of records; she’d handled the transaction by mail.
With the birth certificate in hand, she had applied for a driver’s license, then obtained a Social Security card and the other items. As Cray had said, all the documents were authentic. For six years she had been Paula Neilson.
“And one more document. Elizabeth Palmer’s birth certificate. Another return from the dead?”
He didn’t want an answer. If he had, and if she could have spoken, she would have told him that Elizabeth Palmer was a name she had made up, and the documents establishing her reality had been created with the aid of a desktop computer, a scanner, and a color printer.
She had done the job herself, during the period in Santa Fe when she did clerical work and had access to the proper equipment. She’d been wary of retaining any one identity for too long.
Later, upon returning to Arizona , she had exchanged her fake New Mexico driver’s license for a genuine one, issued by the Motor Vehicles Division. From that moment forward, she had been Elizabeth Palmer. It was who she was now. It was her real identity, as far as she was concerned.
She had created Elizabeth , and she had become Elizabeth , and she never—never—had been anything else.
Cray would not see it that way, of course. He knew her only from her former life.
He was studying the birth certificate, generated with a desktop publishing program. “ Elizabeth was born on October third, 1967 . Her birthday is coming up. She’ll be thirty-two. I’ll have to remember to send a gift. The other items under Miss Palmer’s name are in your wallet, I suppose.”
She stiffened. She didn’t want him to look in her purse.
He didn’t. He merely shrugged. “Well, you’ve been a busy girl, I’ll give you that.”
Cray dumped the assorted cards and papers back into the envelope, then put the envelope in his satchel.
“I’ll take these with me. Nobody will find them. They would raise too many questions. I don’t intend to have people looking into your disappearance very closely, if at all.”
Rapidly he worked his way toward the bottom of the suitcase, speaking in a low, informal tone.
“I’ve already replaced the set of master keys I stole from the storage closet. The damage to the closet’s lock will be attributed to vandalism. Since nothing was taken, probably the management won’t even bother to file a report.”
He found a favorite book of hers, Watership Down, the one about the rabbits, which she’d bought at a junk sale in Las Cruces and carried with her ever since. Indifferently he riffled the pages, looking for marginal notes or hidden messages. There were none.
“As for your disappearance, I doubt any questions will be raised. In an establishment of this kind, the guests must frequently check out at odd hours. I’ll leave the door unlocked, the room key on the counter with a two-dollar tip. They’ll think you left in a hurry. And they’ll forget you immediately.”
He reached the bottom of the suitcase and took out her photo album. It was a slim spiral-bound volume, only half-filled.
She disliked having her picture taken, for obvious reasons, but at a few parties and picnics over the years she’d been caught on film.
Cray flipped through the sheets of photos, his face unchanging. She wondered what
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