"He was a ski champion, apparently, and he broke his neck trying something risky."
A daredevil, without fear. "That sounds like our man."
It had not occurred to Jeannie that not all eight might be alive. Now she realized that there must have been more than eight implants. Even nowadays, when the technique was well established, many implants failed to "take." And it was also likely that some of the mothers had miscarried. Genetico might have experimented on fifteen or twenty women, or even more.
"It's hard making these calls," Lisa said.
"Do you want to take a break?"
"No." Lisa shook herself. "We're doing well. We've eliminated two of the five and it's not yet three A.M.. Who's next?"
"George Dassault."
Jeannie was beginning to believe they would find the rapist, but they were not so lucky with the next name. There were only seven George Dassaults in the United States, but three of them did not answer their phones. None had any connection with either Baltimore or Philadelphia--one was in Buffalo, one in Sacramento, and one in Houston--but that did not prove anything. There was nothing they could do but move on. Lisa printed the list of phone numbers so they could try again later.
There was another snag. "I guess there's no guarantee that the man we're after is on the CD-ROM," Jeannie said.
"That's true. He might not have a phone. Or his number could be unlisted."
"He could be fisted under a nickname, Spike Dassault or Flip Jones."
Lisa giggled. "He could have become a rap singer and changed his name to Icey Creamo Creamy."
"He could be a wrestler called Iron Billy."
"He could be writing westerns under the name Buck Remington."
"Or pornography as Heidi Whiplash."
"Dick Swiftly."
"Henrietta Pussy."
Their laughter was abruptly cut off by the crash of breaking glass. Jeannie shot off her stool and darted into the stationery cupboard. She closed the door behind her and stood in the dark, listening.
She heard Lisa say nervously: "Who is it?"
"Security," came a man's voice. "Did you put that glass there?"
"Yes."
"May I ask why?"
"So nobody could sneak up on me. I get nervous working here late."
"Well, I ain't gonna sweep it up. I ain't a cleaner."
"Okay, just leave it."
"Are you on your own, miss?"
"Yes."
"I'll just look around."
"Be my guest."
Jeannie took hold of the door handle with both hands. If he tried to open it, she would prevent him.
She heard him walking around the lab. "What kind of work are you doing, anyway?" His voice was very close.
Lisa was farther away. "I'd love to talk, but I just don't have time, I'm really busy."
If she wasn't busy, buster, she wouldn't be here in the middle of the goddamn night, so why don't you just butt out and leave her be?
"Okay, no problem." His voice was right outside the door. "What's in here?"
Jeannie grasped the handle firmly and pulled upward, ready to resist pressure.
"That's where we keep the radioactive virus chromosomes," Lisa said. "It's probably quite safe, though, you can go in if it's not locked."
Jeannie suppressed a hysterical laugh. There was no such thing as a radioactive virus chromosome.
"I guess I'll skip it," the guard said. Jeannie was about to relax her grip on the door handle when she felt sudden pressure. She pulled upward with all her might. "It's locked, anyway," he said.
There was a pause. When next he spoke his voice was distant, and Jeannie relaxed. "If you get lonely, come on over to the guardhouse. I'll make you a cup of coffee."
"Thanks," Lisa said.
Jeannie's tension began to ease, but she cautiously stayed where she was, waiting for the all clear. After a couple of minutes Lisa opened the door. "He's left the building," she said.
They went back to the phones.
Murray Claud was another unusual name, and they tracked him down quickly. It was Jeannie who made the call. Murray Claud Sr. told her, in a voice full of bitterness and bewilderment, that his son had been jailed in Athens three years ago, after a knife fight in a taverna, and would not be released until January at the earliest. "That boy could have been anything," he said. "Astronaut. Nobel Prize winner. Movie star. President of the United States. He has brains, charm, and good looks. And he threw it away. Just threw it all away."
She understood the father's pain. He thought he was responsible. She was sorely tempted to tell him the truth, but she was unprepared, and anyway there was no time. She promised herself she would call him again, one day, and give him what consolation she could. Then she hung up.
They left Harvey Jones until last because they knew he would be the hardest.
Jeannie was daunted to find there were almost a million Joneses in America, and H. was a common initial. His middle name was John. He had been born at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, D.C., so Jeannie and Lisa began by calling every Harvey Jones, every H. J. Jones, and every H. Jones in the Washington phone book. They did not find one who had been born approximately twenty-two years ago at Walter Reed; but, worse, they accumulated a long list of maybes: people who did not answer their phones.
Once again Jeannie began to doubt whether this would work. They had three unresolved George Dassaults and now twenty or thirty H. Joneses. Her approach was theoretically sound, but if people did not answer their phones she could not question them. Her eyes were getting bleary and she was feeling jumpy from too much coffee and no sleep.
At four A.M.. she and Lisa began on the Philadelphia Joneses.
At four-thirty Jeannie found him.
She thought it was going to be another maybe. The phone rang four times, then there was the characteristic pause and click of an answering machine. But the voice on the machine was eerily familiar. "You've reached Harvey Jones's place," the message said, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. It was like listening to Steve: the pitch of the voice, the diction, and the phrasing were all Steve's. "I can't come to the phone right now, so please leave a message after the long tone."
Jeannie hung up and checked the address. It was an apartment on Spruce Street, in University City, not far from the Aventine Clinic. She noticed her hands were shaking. It was because she wanted to get him by the throat.
"I've found him," she said to Lisa.
"Oh, my God."
"It's a machine, but it's his voice, and he lives in Philadelphia, near where I was attacked."
"Let me listen." Lisa called the number. As she heard the message her pink cheeks turned white. "It's him," she said. She hung up. "I can hear him now. 'Take off those pretty panties,' he said. Oh, God."
Jeannie picked up the phone and called police headquarters.
53
BERRINGTON JONES DID NOT SLEEP ON SATURDAY NIGHT.
He remained in the Pentagon parking lot, watching Colonel Logan's black Lincoln Mark VIII, until midnight, when he called Proust and learned that Logan had been arrested but Steve had escaped, presumably by subway or bus as he had not taken his father's car.
"What were they doing in the Pentagon?" he asked Jim.
"They were in the Command Data Center. I'm in the process of finding out exactly what they were up to. See if you can track down the boy, or the Ferrami girl."
Berrington no longer objected to doing surveillance. The situation was desperate. This was no time to stand on his dignity; if he failed to stop Jeannie, he would have no dignity left anyway.
When he returned to the Logan house it was dark and deserted, and Jeannie's red Mercedes was gone. He waited there for an hour, but no one arrived. Assuming she had returned home, he drove back to Baltimore and cruised up and down her street, but the car was not there either.
It was getting light when at last he pulled up outside his house in Roland Park. He went inside and called Jim, but there was no reply fro
m his home or his office. Berrington lay on the bed in his clothes, with his eyes shut, but although he was exhausted he stayed awake, worrying.
At seven o'clock he got up and called again, but he still could not reach Jim. He took a shower, shaved, and dressed in black cotton chinos and a striped polo shirt. He squeezed a big glass of orange juice and drank it standing in the kitchen. He looked at the Sunday edition of the Baltimore Sun, but the headlines meant nothing to him; it was as if they were written in Finnish.
Proust called at eight.
Jim had spent half the night at the Pentagon with a friend who was a general, questioning the data center personnel under the pretext of investigating a security breach. The general, a buddy from Jim's CIA days, knew only that Logan was trying to expose an undercover operation from the seventies and Jim wanted to prevent him.
Colonel Logan, who was still under arrest, would not say anything except "I want a lawyer." However, the results of Jeannie's sweep were on the computer terminal Steve had been using, so Jim had been able to find out what they had discovered. "I guess you must have ordered electrocardiograms on all the babies," Jim said.
Berrington had forgotten, but now it came back. "Yes, we did."
"Logan found them."
"All of them?"
"All eight."
It was the worst possible news. The electrocardiograms, like those of identical twins, were as similar as if they had been taken from one person on different days. Steve and his father, and presumably Jeannie, must now know that Steve was one of eight clones. "Hell," Berrington said. "We've kept this secret for twenty-three years, and now this damn girl has found it out."
"I told you we should have made her vanish."
Jim was at his most offensive when under pressure. After a sleepless night Berrington had no patience. "If you say 'I told you so' I'll blow your goddamn head off, I swear to God."
"All right, all right!"
"Does Preston know?"
"Yes. He says we're finished, but he always says that."
"This time he could be right."
Jim's voice took on its parade-ground tone. "You may be ready to wimp out, Berry, but I'm not," he grated. "All we have to do is keep the lid on this until the press conference tomorrow. If we can manage that, the takeover will go through."
"But what happens after that?"
"After that we'll have a hundred and eighty million dollars, and that buys a lot of silence."
Berrington wanted to believe him. "You're such a smart-ass, what do you think we should do next?"
"We have to find out how much they know. No one is sure whether Steven Logan had a copy of the list of names and addresses in his pocket when he got away. The woman lieutenant in the data center swears he did not, but her word isn't enough for me. Now, the addresses he has are twenty-two years old. But here's my question. With just the names, can Jeannie Ferrami track them down?"
"The answer is yes," Berrington said. "We're experts at that in the psychology department. We have to do it all the time, track down identical twins. If she got that list last night she could have found some of them by now."
"I was afraid of that. Is there any way we can check?"
"I guess I could call them and find out if they've heard from her."
"You'd have to be discreet."
"You aggravate me, Jim. Sometimes you act like you're the only guy in America with half a fucking brain. Of course I'll be discreet. I'll get back to you." He hung up with a bang.
The names of the clones and their phone numbers, written in a simple code, were in his Wizard. He took it out of his desk drawer and turned it on.
He had kept track of them over the years. He felt more paternal toward them than either Preston or Jim. In the early days he had written occasional letters from the Aventine Clinic, asking for information under the pretext of follow-up studies on the hormone treatment. Later, when that became implausible, he had employed a variety of subterfuges, such as pretending to be a real estate broker and calling to ask if the family was thinking of selling the house, or whether the parents were interested in buying a book that listed scholarships available to the children of former military personnel. He had watched with ever-increasing dismay as most of them progressed from bright but disobedient children to fearless delinquent teenagers to brilliant, unstable adults. They were the unlucky by-products of a historic experiment. He had never regretted the experiment, but he felt guilty about the boys. He had cried when Per Ericson killed himself doing somersaults on a ski slope in Vail.
He looked at the list while he dreamed up a pretext for calling today. Then he picked up the phone and dialed Murray Claud's father. The phone rang and rang, but no one answered. Eventually Berrington figured this was the day he went to visit his son in jail.
He called George Dassault next. This time he was luckier. The phone was answered by a familiar young voice. "Yeah, who's this?"
Berrington said: "This is Bell Telephone, sir, and we're checking up on fraudulent phone calls. Have you received any odd or unusual calls in the last twenty-four hours?"
"Nope, can't say I have. But I've been out of town since Friday, so I wasn't here to answer the phone anyway."
"Thank you for cooperating with our survey, sir. Good-bye."
Jeannie might have George's name, but she had not reached him. That was inconclusive.
Berrington tried Hank King in Boston next. "Yeah, who's this?"
It was astonishing, Berrington reflected, that they all answered the phone in the same charmless way. There could not be a gene for phone manners. But twins research was full of such phenomena. "This is AT and T," Berrington said. "We're doing a survey of fraudulent phone use and we'd like to know whether you have received any strange or suspicious calls in the last twenty-four hours."
Hank's voice was slurred. "Jeez, I've been partying so hard I wouldn't remember." Berrington rolled up his eyes. It was Hank's birthday yesterday, of course. He was sure to be drunk or drugged or both. "No, wait a minute! There was something. I remember. It was the middle of the fucking night. She said she was with the Boston police."
"She?" That could have been Jeannie, Berrington thought with a premonition of bad news.
"Yeah, it was a woman."
"Did she give her name? That would enable us to check her bona fides."
"Sure she did, but I can't remember. Sarah or Carol or Margaret or--Susan, that was it, Detective Susan Farber."
That settled it. Susan Farber was the author of Identical Twins Reared Apart, the only book on the subject. Jeannie had used the first name that came into her head. That meant she had the list of clones. Berrington was appalled. Grimly, he pressed on with his questions. "What did she say, sir?"
"She asked my date and place of birth."
That would establish that she was talking to the right Henry King.
"I thought it was, like, a little weird," Hank went on. "Was it some kind of scam?"
Berrington invented something on the spur of the moment. "She was prospecting for leads for an insurance company.
It's illegal, but they do it. AT and T is sorry you were bothered, Mr. King, and we thank you for cooperating with our investigation."
"Sure."
Berrington hung up, feeling completely desolate. Jeannie had the names. It was only a matter of time before she tracked them all down.
Berrington was in the deepest trouble of his life.
54
MISH DELAWARE REFUSED POINT-BLANK TO DRIVE TO Philadelphia and interview Harvey Jones. "We did that yesterday, honey," she said when Jeannie finally got her on the phone at seven-thirty A.M. 'Today's my granddaughter's first birthday. I have a life, you know?"
"But you know I'm right!" Jeannie protested. "I was right about Wayne Stattner--he was a double for Steve."
"Except for his hair. And he had an alibi."
"But what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to call the Philadelphia police and talk to someone on the Sex Crimes Unit th
ere and ask them to go see him. I'll fax them the E-FIT picture. They'll check whether Harvey Jones resembles the picture and ask him if he can account for his movements last Sunday afternoon. If the answers are 'Yes' and 'No,' we got a suspect."
Jeannie banged the phone down in a fury. After all she had been through! After she had stayed up all night tracking down the clones!
She sure as hell was not going to sit around waiting for the police to do something. She decided she would go to Philadelphia and check Harvey out. She would not accost him or even speak to him. But she could park outside his home and see if he came out. Failing that, she could speak to his neighbors and show them the picture of Steve that Charles had given her. One way or another she would establish that he was Steve's double.
She got to Philadelphia around ten-thirty. In University City there were smartly dressed black families congregating outside the gospel churches and idle teenagers smoking on the stoops of the aging houses, but the students were still in bed, their presence betrayed only by rusty Toyotas and sagging Chevrolets with bumper stickers hailing college sports teams and local radio stations.
Harvey Jones's building was a huge, ramshackle Victorian house divided into apartments. Jeannie found a parking slot across the street and watched the front door for a while.
At eleven o'clock she went in.
The building was hanging on grimly to the vestiges of respectability. A threadbare runner climbed the stairs wearily, and there were dusty plastic flowers in cheap vases on the window ledges. Neat paper notices, written in the cursive hand of an elderly woman, asked tenants to shut their doors quietly, put out their garbage in securely closed plastic sacks, and not let children play in the hallways.
He lives here, Jeannie thought, and her skin crawled. I wonder if he's here now.
Harvey's address was 5B, which had to be the top floor. She knocked on the first door on the ground floor. A bleary-eyed man with long hair and a tangled beard came to the door barefoot. She showed him the photo. He shook his head and slammed the door. She remembered the resident in Lisa's building who had said to her, "Where do you think you are, lady--Hicksville, USA? I don't even know what my neighbor looks like."
She clenched her teeth and walked up four flights to the top of the house. There was a card in a little metal frame attached to the door of 5B, saying simply "Jones." The door had no other features.