It was good news, but she sounded dispirited, and Steve's elation was checked. "You don't seem as pleased as you ought to be."
"He has an alibi for Sunday."
"Shit." His hopes sank again. "How can he? What sort of an alibi?"
"Watertight. He was at the Emmys in Los Angeles. There are photographs."
"He's in the movie business?"
"Nightclub owner. He's a minor celebrity."
Steve could see why she was so down. Her discovery of Wayne had been brilliant--but it had got them no further forward. But he was mystified as well as downcast. "Then who raped Lisa?"
"Do you remember what Sherlock Holmes says? 'When you have eliminated the impossible, what remains--no matter how improbable--must be the truth.' Or maybe it was Hercule Poirot."
His heart went cold. Surely she did not believe he had raped Lisa? "What's the truth?"
"There are four twins."
"Quadruplets? Jeannie, this is getting crazy."
"Not quadruplets. I can't believe this embryo divided into four by accident. It had to be deliberate, part of the experiment."
"Is that possible?"
"It is nowadays. You've heard of cloning. Back in the seventies it was just an idea. But Genetico seems to have been years ahead of the rest of the field--perhaps because they were working in secret and could experiment on humans."
"You're saying I'm a clone."
"You have to be. I'm sorry, Steve. I keep giving you shattering news. It's a good thing you have the parents you have."
"Yeah. What's he like, Wayne?"
"Creepy. He has a painting that shows Salina Jones being crucified naked. I couldn't wait to get out of his apartment."
Steve was silent. One of my clones is a murderer, the other is a sadist, and the hypothetical fourth is a rapist. Where does that leave me?
Jeannie said: "The clone idea also explains why you all have different birthdays. The embryos were kept in the laboratory for varying periods before being implanted in the women's wombs."
Why did this happen to me? Why couldn't I be like everyone else?
"They're closing the flight, I have to go."
"I want to see you. I'll drive to Baltimore."
"Okay. Bye."
Steve hung up the phone. "You got that," he said to his mother.
"Yeah. He looks just like you, but he's got an alibi, so she thinks there must be four of you, and you're clones."
"If we're clones, I must be like them."
"No. You're different, because you're mine."
"But I'm not." He saw the spasm of pain pass across his mother's face, but he was hurting too. "I'm the child of two complete strangers selected by research scientists employed by Genetico. That's my ancestry."
"You must be different from the others, you behave differently."
"But does that prove that my nature is different from theirs? Or just that I've learned to hide it, like a domesticated animal? Did you make me what I am? Or did Genetico?"
"I don't know, my son," said Mom. "I just don't know."
45
JEANNIE TOOK A SHOWER AND WASHED HER HAIR, THEN MADE up her eyes carefully. She decided not to use lipstick or blush. She dressed in a V-neck purple sweater and skintight gray leggings, with no underwear or shoes. She put in her favorite nose jewel, a small sapphire in a silver mount. In the mirror she looked like sex on a stick. "Off to church, young lady?" she said aloud. Then she winked at herself and went into the living room.
Her father had gone again. He preferred to be at Patty's where he had his three grandchildren to keep him amused. Patty had come to pick him up while Jeannie was in New York.
She had nothing to do but wait for Steve. She tried not to think of the day's great disappointment. She had had enough. She felt hungry; she had kept going on coffee all day. She wondered whether to eat now or hang on until he got here. She smiled as she remembered his eating eight cinnamon buns for breakfast. Was that only yesterday? It seemed a week ago.
Suddenly she realized she did not have any food in the refrigerator. How awful if he arrived hungry and she could not feed him! She hurriedly pulled on a pair of Doc Marten boots and ran outside. She drove to the 7-Eleven on the corner of Falls Road and 36th Street and bought eggs, Canadian bacon, milk, a loaf of seven-grain bread, ready-washed salad, Dos Equis beer, Ben & Jerry's Rainforest Crunch ice cream, and four more packets of frozen cinnamon buns.
While she was standing at the checkout she realized he might arrive while she was out. He might even go away again!
She ran out of the store with her arms full and drove home like a maniac, imagining him waiting impatiently on the doorstep.
There was no one outside her house and no sign of his rusty Datsun. She went inside and put the food in the refrigerator. She took the eggs out of the carton and put them in the egg tray, undid the six-pack of beer, and loaded the coffee machine ready to start. Then she had nothing to do again.
It occurred to her that she was behaving uncharacteristically. She had never before worried about whether a man might be hungry. Her normal attitude, even with Will Temple, had been that if he's hungry he'll fix himself something to eat, and if the refrigerator is empty he'll go to the store, and if the store is closed he'll get drive-through. But now she was suffering an attack of domesticity. Steve was having a bigger impact on her than other men, even though she had known him only a few days--
The doorbell sounded like an explosion.
Jeannie leaped up, heart pounding, and spoke into the entry phone. "Yes?"
"Jeannie? It's Steve."
She touched the button that unlocked the door. She stood still for a moment, feeling foolish. She was acting like a teenage girl. She watched Steve come up the stairs in a gray T-shirt and loose-fitting blue jeans. His face showed the pain and disappointment of the last twenty-four hours. She threw her arms around him and embraced him. His strong body felt tense and strained.
She led him into the living room. He sat on the sofa and she switched on the coffee machine. She felt very close to him. They had not done the usual things, dated and gone to restaurants and watched movies together, the way Jeannie had previously got to know a man. Instead they had fought battles side by side and puzzled over mysteries together and been persecuted by half-hidden enemies. It had made them friends very quickly.
"Want some coffee?"
He shook his head. "I'd rather hold hands."
She sat beside him on the couch and took his hand. He leaned toward her. She turned up her face and he kissed her lips. It was their first real kiss. She squeezed his hand hard and parted her lips. The taste of his mouth made her think of wood smoke. For a moment her passion was derailed as she asked herself if she had brushed her teeth; then she remembered that she had, and she relaxed again. He touched her breasts through the soft wool of her sweater, his big hands surprisingly gentle. She did the same to him, rubbing the palms of her hands across his chest.
It got serious very quickly.
He pulled away to look at her. He stared into her face as if he wanted to burn her features into his memory. With his fingertips he touched her eyebrows, her cheekbones, the tip of her nose, and her lips, as gently as if he were afraid of breaking something. He shook his head from side to side slightly, as if he could not believe what he saw.
In his gaze she saw profound longing. This man yearned for her with all his being. It turned her on. Her passion blew up like a sudden wind from the south, hot and tempestuous. She felt the sensation of melting in her loins that she had not had for a year and a half. She wanted everything all at once, his body on top of her and his tongue in her mouth and his hands everywhere.
She held his head and pulled his face to her and kissed him again, this time with her mouth open wide. She leaned backward on the couch until he was half lying on her, his weight crushing her chest. Eventually she pushed him away, panting, and said: "Bedroom."
She untangled herself from him and went into the bedroom ahead of him. She
pulled her sweater over her head and threw it on the floor. He came into the room and closed the door behind him with his heel. Seeing her undressing, he took off his T-shirt with one swift movement.
They all do that, she thought; they all close the door with their heel.
He pulled off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, and took off his blue jeans. His body was perfect, broad shoulders and a muscular chest and narrow hips in white Jockey shorts.
But which one is he?
He moved toward her and she took two steps back.
The man on the phone said: "He could visit you again."
He frowned. "What's the matter?"
She was suddenly scared. "I can't do this," she said.
He took a deep breath and blew hard. "Wow," he said. He looked away. "Wow."
She crossed her arms on her chest, covering her breasts. "I don't know who you are."
Comprehension dawned. "Oh, my God." He sat on the bed with his back to her, and his big shoulders slumped dispiritedly. But it could have been an act. "You think I'm the one you met in Philadelphia."
"I thought he was Steve."
"But why would he pretend to be me?"
"It doesn't matter."
"He wouldn't just do it in the hope of a sly fuck," he said. "My doubles have peculiar ways of getting their kicks, but this isn't one of them. If he wanted to fuck you he'd pull a knife on you, or rip your stockings, or set fire to the building, wouldn't he?"
"I got a phone call," Jeannie said shakily. "Anonymous. He said: 'The one you met in Philadelphia was supposed to kill you. He got carried away and messed up. But he could visit you again.' That's why you have to leave, now." She snatched up her sweater from off the floor and pulled it on hastily. It did not make her feel any safer.
There was sympathy in his gaze. "Poor Jeannie," he said. "The bastards have scared you good. I'm sorry." He stood up and pulled on his jeans.
Suddenly she felt sure she was wrong. The Philadelphia clone, the rapist, would never start dressing again in this situation. He would throw her on the bed and tear off her clothes and try to take her by force. This man was different. This was Steve. She felt an almost irresistible desire to fling her arms around him and make love to him. "Steve ..."
He smiled. "That's me."
But was this the aim of his act? When he had won her confidence, and they were naked in bed, and he was lying on top of her, would he change and reveal his true nature, the nature that loved to see women in fear and pain? She shuddered with dread.
It was no good. She averted her eyes. "You'd better go," she said.
"You could question me," he said.
"All right. Where did I first meet Steve?"
"At the tennis court."
It was the right answer. "But both Steve and the rapist were at JFU that day."
"Ask me something else."
"How many cinnamon buns did Steve eat on Friday morning?"
He grinned. "Eight, I'm ashamed to say."
She shook her head despairingly. "This place could be bugged. They've searched my office and downloaded my E-mail, they could be listening to us now. It's no good. I don't know Steve Logan that well, and what I do know, others might know too."
"I guess you're right," he said, putting his T-shirt back on.
He sat on the bed and put on his shoes. She went into the living room, not wanting to stand in the bedroom and watch him dress. Was this a terrible mistake? Or was it the smartest move she had ever made? She felt a bereft ache in her loins; she had wanted so badly to make love to Steve. Yet the thought that she might have found herself in bed with someone like Wayne Stattner made her shaky with fear.
He came in, fully dressed. She looked into his eyes, searching for something there, some sign that would assuage her doubts, but she did not find it. I don't know who you are, I just don't know!
He read her mind. "It's no use, I can tell. Trust is trust, and when it's gone, it's gone." He let his resentment show for a moment. "What a downer, what a motherfucking downer."
His anger scared her. She was strong, but he was stronger. She wanted him out of the apartment, and fast.
He sensed her urgency. "Okay, I'm leaving," he said. He went to the door. "You realize he wouldn't leave." She nodded.
He said what she was thinking. "But until I really leave, you can't be sure. And if I leave and come right back, that doesn't count either. For you to know it's me, I have to really go away."
"Yes." She was sure now that this was Steve, but her doubts would return unless he really went away.
"We need a secret code, so you know it's me."
"Okay."
"I'll think of something."
"Okay."
"Good-bye," he said. "I won't try to kiss you."
He went down the stairs. "Call me," he shouted.
She stood still, frozen to the spot, until she heard the slam of the street door.
She bit her lip. She felt like crying. She went to the kitchen counter and poured coffee into a mug. She raised the mug to her lips, but it slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor, where it smashed on the tiles. "Fuck," she said.
Her legs went weak, and she slumped on the couch. She had felt in terrible danger. Now she knew the danger had been imaginary, but she still felt profoundly grateful that it had passed. Her body felt swollen with unfulfilled desire. She touched her crotch: her leggings were damp. "Soon," she breathed. "Soon." She thought about how it would be the next time they met, how she would embrace him and kiss him and apologize, and how tenderly he would forgive her; and as she envisioned it she touched herself with her fingertips, and after a few moments a spasm of pleasure went through her.
Then she slept for a while.
46
IT WAS THE HUMILIATION THAT GOT TO BERRINGTON.
He kept defeating Jeannie Ferrami, but he was never able to feel good about it. She had forced him to go sneaking around like a petty thief. He had surreptitiously leaked a story to a newspaper, crept into her office and searched her desk drawers, and now he was watching her house. But fear compelled him. His world seemed about to fall around him. He was desperate.
He would never have thought he would be doing this a few weeks from his sixtieth birthday: sitting in his car, parked at the curb, watching someone else's front door like a grubby private eye. What would his mother think? She was still alive, a slim, well-dressed woman of eighty-four, living in a small town in Maine, writing witty letters to the local newspaper and determinedly hanging on to her post as chief flower arranger for the Episcopalian Church. She would shudder with shame to know what her son had been reduced to.
God forbid he should be seen by anyone he knew. He was careful not to meet the eyes of passersby. His car was unfortunately conspicuous. He thought of it as a discreetly elegant automobile, but there were not many silver Lincoln Town Cars parked along this street: aging Japanese compacts and lovingly preserved Pontiac Firebirds were the local favorites. Berrington himself was not the kind of person to fade into the background, with his distinctive gray hair. For a while he had held a street map open in front of him, resting on the steering wheel, for camouflage, but this was a friendly neighborhood, and two people had tapped on the window and offered to give him directions, so he had had to put the map away. He consoled himself with the thought that anyone who lived in such a low-rent area could not possibly be important.
He now had no idea what Jeannie was up to. The FBI had failed to find that list in her apartment. Berrington had to assume the worst: the list had led her to another clone. If that were so, disaster was not far away. Berrington, Jim, and Preston were staring close up at public exposure, disgrace, and ruin.
It was Jim who had suggested that Berrington watch Jeannie's house. "We have to know what she's up to, who comes and goes," Jim had said, and Berrington had reluctantly agreed. He had got here early, and nothing had happened until around midday when Jeannie was dropped off by a black woman he recognized as one of the detectives investigatin
g the rape. She had interviewed him briefly on Monday. He had found her attractive. He managed to remember her name: Sergeant Delaware.
He called Proust from the pay phone in the McDonald's on the corner, and Proust promised to get his FBI friend to find out whom they had been to see. Berrington imagined the FBI man saying, "Sergeant Delaware made contact today with a suspect we have under surveillance. For security reasons I can't reveal any more than that, but it would be helpful to us to know exactly what she did this morning and what case she was working on."
An hour or so later Jeannie had left in a rush, looking heartbreakingly sexy in a purple sweater. Berrington had not followed her car; despite his fears, he could not bring himself to do something so undignified. But she had come back a few minutes later carrying a couple of brown paper sacks from a grocery store. The next arrival was one of the clones, presumably Steve Logan.
He had not stayed long. If I'd been in his shoes, Berrington thought, with Jeannie dressed like that, I would have stayed there all night and most of Sunday.
He checked the car's clock for the twentieth time and decided to call Jim again. He might have heard from the FBI by now.
Berrington left his car and walked to the corner. The smell of French fries made him hungry, but he did not like to eat hamburgers out of fast-food containers. He got a cup of black coffee and went to the pay phone.
"They went to New York," Jim told him.
It was as Berrington had feared. "Wayne Stattner," he said.
"Yup."
"Shit. What did they do?"
"Asked him to account for his movements last Sunday, and like that. He was at the Emmys. Had his picture, in People magazine. End of story."
"Any indication what Jeannie might be planning to do next?"
"No. What's happening there?"
"Not a lot. I can see her door from here. She did some shopping, Steve Logan came and went, nothing. Maybe they've run out of ideas."
"And maybe not. All we know is that your scheme of firing her didn't shut her up."
"All right, Jim, don't rub it in. Wait--she's coming out." She had changed her clothes: she was wearing white jeans and a royal blue sleeveless blouse that showed her strong arms.
"Follow her," Jim said.
"The hell with that. She's getting into her car."
"Berry, we have to know where she goes."
"I'm not a cop, goddamn it!"