"This is one of our nurses," Dr. Harman put in. "Miss Wilson, Mr.
Malone. And Mr. Boyd. Miss Thompson, gentlemen, is over there."
Malone turned.
There, in a corner of the room, an old lady sat. She was a small old lady, with apple-red cheeks and twinkling eyes. She held some knitting in her hands, and she smiled up at the FBI men as if they were her grandsons come for tea and cookies, of a Sunday afternoon.
She had snow-white hair that shone like a crown around her old head in the lights of the room. Malone blinked at her. She didn't disappear.
"You're Miss Thompson?" he said.
She smiled sweetly. "Oh, my, no," she said.
There was a long silence. Malone looked at her. Then he looked at the unbelievably beautiful Miss Wilson. Then he looked at Dr. Harman. And, at last, he looked at Boyd.
"All right," he said. "I get it. You're Miss Thompson."
"Now, wait a minute, Malone," Boyd began.
"Wait a minute?" Malone said. "There are four people here, not counting me. I know I'm not Miss Thompson. I never was, not even as a child. And Dr. Harman isn't, and Miss Wilson isn't, and Whistler's Great-Grandmother isn't, either. So you must be. Unless she isn't here. Or unless she's invisible. Or unless I'm crazy."