The Third Twin (17 page)

“In that case, I’ll take you out.”

The three of them left the room together.

Outside the door Robinson said: “Go get a mop, Pinker.”

Dennis smiled at Jeannie, a long, intimate smile, as if they were lovers who had spent the afternoon in bed together. Then he disappeared into the interior of the jail. Jeannie watched him go with immense relief, but it was tinged with continuing revulsion, for he had her underwear in his pocket. Would he sleep with her panties pressed to his cheek, like a child with a teddy bear? Or would he wrap them around his penis as he masturbated, pretending that he was fucking her? Whatever he chose to do she felt she was an unwilling participant, her privacy violated and her freedom compromised.

Robinson walked her to the main gate and shook her hand. She crossed the hot parking lot to the Ford, thinking, I’ll be glad to drive out of this place. She had a sample of Dennis’s DNA, that was the most important thing.

Lisa was at the wheel, running the air-conditioning to cool the car. Jeannie slumped into the passenger seat.

“You look beat,” Lisa said as she pulled away.

“Stop at the first shopping strip,” Jeannie said.

“Sure. What do you need?”

“I’ll tell you,” Jeannie replied. “But you’re not going to believe it.”

19

A
FTER LUNCH
B
ERRINGTON WENT TO A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD
bar and ordered a martini.

Jim Proust’s casual suggestion of murder had shaken him. Berrington knew he had made a fool of himself by grabbing Jim’s lapel and yelling. But he did not regret the fuss. At least he could be sure Jim knew exactly how he felt.

It was nothing new for them to fight. He remembered their first great crisis, in the early seventies, when the Watergate scandal broke. It had been a terrible time: conservatism was discredited, the law-and-order politicians turned out to be crooked, and any clandestine activity, no matter how well intentioned, was suddenly viewed as an unconstitutional conspiracy. Preston Barck had been terrified and wanted to give up the whole mission. Jim Proust had called him a coward, argued angrily that there was no danger, and proposed to carry it on as a joint CIA-army project, perhaps with tighter security. No doubt he would have been ready to assassinate any investigative journalist who pried into what they were doing. It had been Berrington who suggested setting up a private company and distancing themselves from the government. Now once again it was up to him to find a way out of their difficulties.

The place was gloomy and cool. A TV set over the bar showed a soap opera, but the sound was turned down. The cold gin calmed Berrington. His anger at Jim gradually evaporated, and he focused his mind on Jeannie Ferrami.

Fear had caused him to make a rash promise. He had recklessly told Jim and Preston that he would deal with Jeannie. Now he had to fulfill that imprudent undertaking. He had to stop her asking questions about Steve Logan and Dennis Pinker.

It was maddeningly difficult. Although he had hired her and arranged her grant, he could not simply give her orders; as he had told Jim, the university was not the army. She was employed by JFU, and Genetico had already handed over a year’s funding. In the long term, of course, he could easily pull the plug on her; but that was not good enough. She had to be stopped immediately, today or tomorrow, before she learned enough to ruin them all.

Calm down, he thought, calm down.

Her weak point was her use of medical databases without the permission of the patients. It was the kind of thing the newspapers could make into a scandal, regardless of whether anyone’s privacy was genuinely invaded. And universities were terrified of scandal; it played havoc with their fundraising.

It was tragic to wreck such a promising scientific project. It went against everything Berrington stood for. He had encouraged Jeannie, and now he had to undermine her. She would be heartbroken, and with reason. He told himself that she had bad genes and would have got into trouble sooner or later; but all the same he wished he did not have to be the cause of her downfall.

He tried not to think about her body. Women had always been his weakness. No other vice tempted him: he drank in moderation, never gambled, and could not understand why people took drugs. He had loved his wife, Vivvie, but even then he had not been able to resist the temptation of other women, and Vivvie had eventually left him because of his fooling around. Now when he thought of Jeannie he imagined her running her fingers through his hair and saying, “You’ve been so good to me, I owe you so much, how can I ever thank you?”

Such thoughts made him feel ashamed. He was supposed to be her patron and mentor, not her seducer.

As well as desire he felt burning resentment. She was just a girl, for God’s sake; how could she be such a threat? How could a kid with a ring in her nose possibly jeopardize him and Preston and Jim when they were on the brink of achieving their lifetime ambitions? It was unthinkable they should be thwarted now; the idea made him dizzy with panic. When he was not imagining himself making love to Jeannie, he had fantasies of strangling her.

All the same he was reluctant to start a public outcry against her. It was hard to control the press. There was a chance they would begin by investigating Jeannie and finish up investigating him. This would be a dangerous strategy. But he could think of no other, short of Jim’s wild talk of murder.

He drained his glass. The bartender offered him another martini, but he declined. He looked around the bar and spotted a pay phone next to the men’s room. He swiped his American Express card through the card reader and called Jim’s office. One of Jim’s brash young men answered: “Senator Proust’s office.”

“This is Berrington Jones—”

“I’m afraid the senator is in a meeting right now.”

He really should train his acolytes to be a little more charming, Berrington thought. “Then let’s see if we can avoid interrupting him,” he said. “Does he have any media appointments this afternoon?”

“I’m not sure. May I ask why you need to know, sir?”

“No, young man, you may not,” Berrington said with exasperation. Self-important assistants were the curse of Capitol Hill. “You may answer my question, or you may put Jim Proust on the phone, or you may lose your goddamn job, now which is it to be?”

“Please hold.”

There was a long pause. Berrington reflected that wishing Jim would teach his aides to be charming was like hoping a chimpanzee would teach its young table manners. The boss’s style spread to the staff: an ill-mannered person always had rude employees.

A new voice came on the phone. “Professor Jones, in fifteen minutes the senator is due to attend a press conference to launch Congressman Dinkey’s book
New Hope for America.”

That was just perfect. “Where?”

“The Watergate hotel.”

“Tell Jim I’ll be there, and make sure my name is on the guest list, please.” Berrington hung up without waiting for a reply.

He left the bar and got a cab to the hotel. This would need to be handled delicately. Manipulating the media was hazardous: a good reporter might look past the obvious story and start asking why it was being planted. But each time he thought of the risks, he reminded himself of the rewards and steeled his nerve.

He found the room where the press conference was to be held. His name was not on the list—self-important assistants were never efficient—but the book’s publicist recognized his face and welcomed him as an additional attraction for the cameras. He was glad he had worn the striped Turnbull & Asser shirt that looked so distinguished in photographs.

He took a glass of Perrier and looked around the room. There was a small lectern in front of a blowup of the book’s cover, and a pile of press releases on a side table. The TV crews were setting up their lights. Berrington saw one or two reporters he knew, but none he really trusted.

However, more were arriving all the time. He moved around the room, making small talk, keeping an eye on the door. Most of the journalists knew him: he was a minor celebrity. He had not read the book, but Dinkey subscribed to a traditionalist right-wing agenda that was a mild version of what Berrington shared with Jim and Preston, so Berrington was happy to tell reporters that he endorsed the book’s message.

At a few minutes past three, Jim arrived with Dinkey. Close behind them was Hank Stone, a senior
New York Times
man. Bald, red-nosed, bulging over the waistband of his pants, shirt collar undone, tie pulled down, tan shoes scuffed, he had to be the worst-looking man in the White House press corps.

Berrington wondered if Hank would do.

Hank had no known political beliefs. Berrington had met him when he did an article about Genetico, fifteen or twenty years ago. Since getting the Washington job, he had written about Berrington’s ideas once or twice and Jim Proust’s several times. He treated them sensationally, rather than intellectually, as newspapers inevitably did, but he never moralized in the pious way liberal journalists would.

Hank would treat a tip-off on its merits: if he thought it was a good story he would write it. But could he be trusted not to dig deeper? Berrington was not sure.

He greeted Jim and shook hands with Dinkey. They talked for a few minutes while Berrington looked out hopefully for a better prospect. But none came and the press conference started.

Berrington sat through the speeches, containing his impatience. There was just not enough time. Given a few days he could find someone better than Hank, but he did not have a few days, he had a few hours. And an apparently fortuitous meeting like this was so much less suspicious than making an appointment and taking the journalist to lunch.

When the speeches were over there was still no one better than Hank in view.

As the journalists dispersed Berrington buttonholed him. “Hank, I’m glad I ran into you. I may have a story for you.”

“Good!”

“It’s about misuse of medical information on databases.” He made a face. “Not really my kind of thing, Berry, but go on.”

Berrington groaned inwardly: Hank did not seem to be in a receptive mood. He plowed on, working his charm. “I believe it
is
your kind of thing, because you’ll see potential in it that an ordinary reporter might overlook.”

“Well, try me.”

“First of all, we’re not having this conversation.”

“That’s a little more promising.”

“Second, you may wonder why I’m giving you the story, but you’re never going to ask.”

“Better and better,” Hank said, but he did not make a promise.

Berrington decided not to push him on it. “At Jones Falls University, in the psychology department, there’s a young researcher called Dr. Jean Ferrami. In her search for suitable subjects to study, she scans large medical databases without the permission of the people whose records are on the files.”

Hank pulled at his red nose. “Is this a story about computers, or about scientific ethics?”

“I don’t know, you’re the journalist.”

He looked unenthusiastic. “It isn’t much of a scoop.”

Don’t start playing hard to get, you bastard.
Berrington touched Hank’s arm in a friendly gesture. “Do me a favor, make some inquiries,” he said persuasively. “Call the university president, his name is Maurice Obeli. Call Dr. Ferrami. Tell them it’s a big story, and see what they say. I believe you’ll get some interesting reactions.”

“I don’t know.”

“I promise you, Hank, it will be worth your time.”
Say yes, you son of a bitch, say yes!

Hank hesitated, then said: “Okay, I’ll give it a whirl.”

Berrington tried to conceal his satisfaction behind an expression of gravity, but he could not help a little smile of triumph.

Hank saw it, and a suspicious frown crossed his face. “You’re not trying to use me, are you, Berry? Like to frighten someone, maybe?”

Berrington smiled and put an arm around the reporter’s shoulders. “Hank,” he said, “trust me.”

20

J
EANNIE BOUGHT A THREE-PACK OF WHITE COTTON PANTIES
at a Walgreen in a strip mall just outside Richmond. She slipped a pair on in the ladies’ rest room of the neighboring Burger King. Then she felt better.

Strange how defenseless she had felt without underwear. She had hardly been able to think of anything else. Yet when she was in love with Will Temple she had liked to go around with no panties on. It made her feel sexy all day. Sitting in the library, or working in the lab, or just walking down the street, she would fantasize that Will showed up unexpectedly, in a fever of passion, saying, “There isn’t much time but I’ve got to have you, now, right here,” and she was ready for him. But without a man in her life she needed her underwear like she needed shoes.

Properly dressed again, she returned to the car. Lisa drove them to the Richmond-Williamsburg airport, where they checked their rental car and caught the plane back to Baltimore.

The key to the mystery must lie with the hospital where Dennis and Steven were born, Jeannie mused as they took off. Somehow, identical twin brothers had ended up with different mothers. It was a fairy-tale scenario, but something like it must have happened.

She looked through the papers in her case and checked the birth information on the two subjects. Steven’s birthday was August 25. To her horror she found that Dennis’s birthday was September 7—almost two weeks later.

“There must be a mistake,” she said. “I don’t know why I didn’t check this before.” She showed Lisa the conflicting documents.

“We can double-check,” Lisa said.

“Do any of our forms ask which hospital the subject was born at?”

Lisa gave a rueful laugh. “I believe that’s one question we didn’t include.”

“It must have been a military hospital, in this case. Colonel Logan is in the army, and presumably ‘the Major’ was a soldier at the time Dennis was born.”

“We’ll check.”

Lisa did not share Jeannie’s impatience. For her it was just another research project. For Jeannie it was everything. “I’d like to call right away,” she said. “Is there a phone on this plane?”

Lisa frowned. “Are you thinking of calling Steven’s mother?”

Jeannie heard the note of disapproval in Lisa’s voice. “Yes. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Does she know he’s in jail?”

“Good point. I don’t know. Damn. I shouldn’t be the one to break the news.”

“He may have called home already.”

“Maybe I’ll go see Steven in jail. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”

“I guess so. But they might have visiting hours, like hospitals.”

“I’ll just show up and hope for the best. Anyway, I can call the Pinkers.” She waved at a passing stewardess. “Is there a phone on the plane?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Too bad.”

The stewardess smiled. “Don’t you remember me, Jeannie?”

Jeannie looked at her for the first time and recognized her immediately. “Penny Watermeadow!” she said. Penny had done her doctorate in English at Minnesota alongside Jeannie. “How are you?”

“I’m great. How are you doing?”

“I’m at Jones Falls, doing a research project that’s running into problems. I thought you were going after an academic job.”

“I was, but I didn’t get one.”

Jeannie felt embarrassed that she had been successful where her friend had failed. “That’s too bad.”

“I’m glad, now. I enjoy this work and it pays better than most colleges.”

Jeannie did not believe her. It shocked her to see a woman with a doctorate working as a stewardess. “I always thought you’d be such a good teacher.”

“I taught high school for a while. I got knifed by a student who disagreed with me about
Macbeth.
I asked myself why I was doing it—risking my life to teach Shakespeare to kids who couldn’t wait to go back out on the streets and get on with stealing money to buy crack cocaine.”

Jeannie remembered the name of Penny’s husband. “How’s Danny?”

“He’s doing great, he’s area sales manager now. It means he has to travel a lot, but it’s worth it.”

“Well, it’s good to see you again. Are you based in Baltimore?”

“Washington, D.C.”

“Give me your phone number, I’ll call you up.” Jeannie offered a ballpoint and Penny wrote her phone number on one of Jeannie’s file folders.

“We’ll have lunch,” Penny said. “It’ll be fun.”

“You bet.”

Penny moved on.

Lisa said: “She seemed bright.”

“She’s very clever. I’m horrified. There’s nothing wrong with being a stewardess, but it’s kind of a waste of twenty-five years of education.”

“Are you going to call her?”

“Hell, no. She’s in denial. I’d just remind her of what she used to hope for. It would be agony.”

“I guess. I feel sorry for her.”

“So do I.”

As soon as they landed, Jeannie went to a pay phone and called the Pinkers in Richmond, but their line was busy. “Damn,” she said querulously. She waited five minutes then tried again, but she got the same infuriating tone. “Charlotte must be calling her violent family to tell them all about our visit,” she said. “I’ll try later.”

Lisa’s car was in the parking lot. They drove into the city and Lisa dropped Jeannie at her apartment. Before getting out of the car, Jeannie said: “Could I ask you a great big favor?”

“Sure. I’m not saying I’ll do it, though.” Lisa grinned.

“Start the DNA extraction tonight.”

Her face fell. “Oh, Jeannie, we’ve been out all day. I have to shop for dinner—”

“I know. And I have to visit the jail. Let’s meet at the lab later, say at nine o’clock?”

“Okay.” Lisa smiled. “I’m kind of curious to know how the test turns out.”

“If we start tonight, we could have a result by the day after tomorrow.”

Lisa looked dubious. “Cutting a few corners, yes.”

“Atta girl!” Jeannie got out of the car and Lisa drove away.

Jeannie would have liked to get right into her car and drive to police headquarters, but she decided she should check on her father first, so she went into the house.

He was watching
Wheel of Fortune.
“Hi, Jeannie, you’re home late,” he said.

“I’ve been working, and I haven’t finished yet,” she said. “How was your day?”

“A little dull, here on my own.”

She felt sorry for him. He seemed to have no friends. However, he looked a lot better than he had last night. He was clean and shaved and rested. He had warmed up a pizza from her freezer for his lunch: the dirty dishes were on the kitchen counter. She was about to ask him who the hell he thought was going to put them in the dishwasher, but she bit back her words.

She put down her briefcase and began to tidy up. He did not turn off the TV.

“I’ve been to Richmond, Virginia,” she said.

“That’s nice, honey. What’s for dinner?”

No, she thought, this can’t go on. He’s not going to treat me like he treated Mom. “Why don’t you make something?” she said.

That got his attention. He turned from the TV to look at her. “I can’t cook!”

“Nor can I, Daddy.”

He frowned, then smiled. “So we’ll eat out!”

The expression on his face was hauntingly familiar. Jeannie flashed back twenty years. She and Patty were wearing matching flared denim jeans. She saw Daddy with dark hair and sideburns, saying: “Let’s go to the carnival! Shall we get cotton candy? Jump in the ear!” He had been the most wonderful man in the world. Then her memory jumped ten years. She was in black jeans and Doc Marten boots, and Daddy’s hair was shorter and graying, and he said: “I’ll drive you up to Boston with your stuff, I’ll get a van, it’ll give us a chance to spend time together, we’ll eat fast food on the road, it’ll be such fun! Be ready at ten!” She had waited all day, but he never showed up, and the next day she took a Greyhound.

Now, seeing the same old let’s-have-fun light in his eyes, she wished with all her heart that she could be nine years old again and believe every word he said. But she was grown-up now, so she said: “How much money do you have?”

He looked sullen. “I don’t have any, I told you.”

“Me either. So we can’t eat out.” She opened the refrigerator. She had an iceberg lettuce, some fresh corn on the cob, a lemon, a pack of lamb chops, one tomato, and a half-empty box of Uncle Ben’s rice. She took them all out and put them on the counter. “I tell you what,” she said. “We’ll have fresh corn with melted butter as an appetizer, followed by lamb chops with lemon zest accompanied by salad and rice, and ice cream for dessert.”

“Well, that’s just great!”

“You get it started while I’m out.”

He stood up and looked at the food she had put out.

She picked up her briefcase. “I’ll be back soon after ten.”

“I don’t know how to cook this stuff!” He picked up a corncob.

From the shelf over the refrigerator she took
The Reader’s Digest All-the-Year-Round Cookbook.
She handed it to him. “Look it up,” she said. She kissed his cheek and went out.

As she got into her car and headed downtown she hoped she had not been too cruel. He was from an older generation; the rules had been different in his day. Still, she could not be his housekeeper even if she had wanted to: she had to hold down her job. By giving him a place to lay his head at night she was already doing more for him than he had done for her most of her life. All the same she wished she had left him on a happier note. He was inadequate, but he was the only father she had.

She put her car in a parking garage and walked through the red-light district to police headquarters. There was a swanky lobby with marble benches and a mural depicting scenes from Baltimore history. She told the receptionist she was here to see Steven Logan, who was in custody. She expected to have to argue about it, but after a few minutes’ wait a young woman in uniform took her inside and up in the elevator.

She was shown into a room the size of a closet. It was featureless except for a small window set into the wall at face level and a sound panel beneath it. The window looked into another similar booth. There was no way to pass anything from one room to the other without making a hole in the wall.

She stared through the window. After another five minutes Steven was brought in. As he entered the booth she saw that he was handcuffed and his feet were chained together, as if he were dangerous. He came to the glass and peered through. When he recognized her, he smiled broadly. “This is a pleasant surprise!” he said. “In fact, it’s the only nice thing that’s happened to me all day.”

Despite his cheerful manner he looked terrible: strained and tired. “How are you?” she said.

“A little rough. They’ve put me in a cell with a murderer who has a crack hangover. I’m afraid to go to sleep.”

Her heart went out to him. She reminded herself that he was supposed to be the man who raped Lisa. But she could not believe it. “How long do you think you’ll be here?”

“I have a bail review before a judge tomorrow. Failing that, I may be locked up until the DNA test result comes through. Apparently that takes three days.”

The mention of DNA reminded her of her purpose. “I saw your twin today.”

“And?”

“There’s no doubt. He’s your double.”

“Maybe
he
raped Lisa Hoxton.”

Jeannie shook her head. “If he had escaped from jail over the weekend, yes. But he’s still locked up.”

“Do you think he might have escaped then returned? To establish an alibi?”

“Too fanciful. If Dennis got out of jail, nothing would induce him to go back.”

“I guess you’re right,” Steven said gloomily.

“I have a couple of questions to ask you.”

“Shoot.”

“First I need to double-check your birthday.”

“August twenty-fifth.”

That was what Jeannie had written down. Maybe she had Dennis’s date wrong. “And do you happen to know where you were born?”

“Yes. Dad was stationed at Fort Lee, Virginia, at the time, and I was born in the army hospital there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain. Mom wrote about it in her book
Having a Baby.”
He narrowed his eyes in a look that was becoming familiar to her. It meant he was figuring out her thinking. “Where was Dennis born?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“But we share a birthday.”

“Unfortunately, he gives his birthday as September seventh. But it might be a mistake. I’m going to double-check. I’ll call his mother as soon as I get to my office. Have you spoken to your parents yet?”

“No.”

“Would you like me to call them?”

“No! Please. I don’t want them to know until I can tell them I’ve been cleared.”

She frowned. “From everything you’ve told me about them, they seem the kind of people who would be supportive.”

“They would. But I don’t want to put them through the agony.”

“Sure it would be painful for them. But they might prefer to know, so they can help you.”

“No. Please don’t call them.”

Jeannie shrugged. There was something he was not telling her. But it was his decision.

“Jeannie … what’s he like?”

“Dennis? Superficially, he’s like you.”

“Does he have long hair, short hair, a mustache, dirty fingernails, acne, a limp—”

“His hair is short just like yours, he has no facial hair, his hands are clean, and his skin is clear. It could have
been
you.”

“Jeeze.” Steven looked deeply uncomfortable.

“The big difference is his behavior. He doesn’t know how to relate to the rest of the human race.”

“It’s very strange.”

“I don’t find it so. In fact, it confirms my theory. You were both what I call wild children. I stole the phrase from a French film. I use it for the type of child who is fearless, uncontrollable, hyperactive. Such children are very difficult to socialize. Charlotte Pinker and her husband failed with Dennis. Your parents succeeded with you.”

This did not reassure him. “But underneath, Dennis and I are the same.”

“You were both born wild.”

“But I have a thin veneer of civilization.”

She could see he was profoundly troubled. “Why does it bother you so much?”