The Third Twin (27 page)

36

S
TEVE SAT ON A LOW WALL NEAR
J
EANNIE’S HOUSE, WAITING
for her. It was hot, but he took advantage of the shade of a big maple tree. She lived in an old working-class neighborhood of traditional row houses. Teenagers from a nearby school were walking home, laughing and quarreling and eating candy. It was not long since he had been like that: eight or nine years.

But now he was worried and desperate. This afternoon his lawyer had talked to Sergeant Delaware of the Sex Crimes Unit in Baltimore. She had told him she had the results of the DNA test. The DNA from traces of sperm in Lisa Hoxton’s vagina exactly matched the DNA in Steve’s blood.

He was devastated. He had been sure the DNA test would end this agony.

He could tell that his lawyer no longer believed in his innocence. Mom and Dad did, but they were baffled; they both knew enough to realize that DNA testing was extremely reliable.

In his worst moments he wondered if he had some kind of split personality. Maybe there was another Steve who took over and raped women and gave him his body back afterward. That way he would not know what he had done. He recalled, ominously, that there were a few seconds of his fight with Tip Hendricks that he had never been able to bring to mind. And he had been ready to drive his fingers into Porky Butcher’s brain. Was it his alter ego who did these things? He did not really believe it. There had to be another explanation.

The ray of hope was the mystery surrounding him and Dennis Pinker. Dennis had the same DNA as Steve. Something was wrong here. And the only person who could figure it out was Jeannie Ferrami.

The kids disappeared into their homes, and the sun dipped behind the row of houses on the other side of the street. Toward six o’clock the red Mercedes eased into a parking slot fifty yards away. Jeannie got out. At first she did not see Steve. She opened the trunk and took out a large black plastic garbage bag. Then she locked the car and came along the sidewalk toward him. She was dressed formally, in a black skirted suit, but she looked disheveled, and there was a weariness in her walk that touched his heart. He wondered what had happened to give her this battle-worn look. She was still gorgeous, though, and he watched her with longing in his heart.

As she got near him he stood up, smiling, and took a step toward her.

She glanced at him, met his eye, and recognized him. A look of horror came over her face.

She opened her mouth and screamed.

He stopped dead. Aghast, he said: “Jeannie, what is it?”

“Get away from me!” she yelled. “Don’t you touch me! I’m calling the cops right now!”

Nonplussed, Steve held his hands up in a defensive gesture. “Sure, sure, anything you say. I’m not touching you, okay? What the hell has gotten into you?”

A neighbor came out of the front door Jeannie shared. He must be the occupant of the apartment beneath hers, Steve figured. He was an old black man wearing a checked shirt and a tie. “Is everything all right, Jeannie?” he said. “I thought I heard someone cry out.”

“It was me, Mr. Oliver,” she said in a shaky voice. “This jerk attacked me in my car in Philadelphia this afternoon.”

“Attacked you?” Steve said incredulously. “I wouldn’t do that!”

“You bastard, you did it two hours ago.”

Steve was stung. He was sick of being accused of brutality. “Fuck you, I haven’t been to Philadelphia for years.”

Mr. Oliver intervened. “This young gentleman been sitting on that wall for nigh on two hours, Jeannie. He ain’t been to no Philadelphia this afternoon.”

Jeannie looked indignant and seemed ready to accuse her good-natured neighbor of lying.

Steve noticed that she was wearing no stockings; her bare legs looked odd with such a formal outfit. One side of her face was slightly swollen and reddish. His fury evaporated.
Someone
had attacked her. He yearned to put his arms around her and comfort her. It made her fear of him even more distressing. “He hurt you,” he said. “The bastard.”

Her face changed. The look of terror went. She spoke to the neighbor. “He got here two hours ago?”

The man shrugged. “Hour and forty, maybe fifty minutes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Jeannie, if he was in Philadelphia two hours ago he must have come here on the Concorde.”

She looked at Steve. “It must have been Dennis.”

He walked toward her. She did not step back. He reached out and touched her swollen cheek with his fingertips. “Poor Jeannie,” he said.

“I thought it was you,” she said, and tears came to her eyes.

He folded her in his arms. Slowly he felt her body lose its stiffness, and she leaned on him trustingly. He stroked her head and twined his fingers in the heavy waves of her dark hair. He closed his eyes, thinking how lean and strong her body was. I’ll bet Dennis has some bruises too, he thought. I hope so.

Mr. Oliver coughed. “Would you youngsters like a cup of coffee?”

Jeannie detached herself from Steve. “No, thanks,” she said. “I just want to get out of these clothes.”

Tension was written on her face, but she looked even more bewitching. I’m falling in love with this woman, he thought. It’s not just that I want to sleep with her—though it’s that too. I want her to be my friend. I want to watch TV with her, and go to the supermarket with her, and give her NyQuil on a spoon when she has a cold. I want to see how she brushes her teeth and pulls on her jeans and butters her toast. I want her to ask me does the orange lipstick suit her and should she buy razors and what time will I be home.

He wondered if he had the nerve to tell her that.

She crossed the row porch to her door. Steve hesitated. He wanted to follow her, but he needed an invitation.

She turned on the doorstep. “Come on,” she said.

He followed her up the stairs and entered the living room behind her. She dropped the black plastic bag on the rug. She went into the kitchen nook and kicked off her shoes, then, to his astonishment, she dropped them in the kitchen bin. “I’ll never wear these goddamn clothes again,” she said angrily. She took off her jacket and threw that away. Then, as Steve stared in disbelief, she unbuttoned her blouse and took it off and put that in the bin too.

She was wearing a plain black cotton brassiere. Surely, Steve thought, she was not going to take that off right in front of him. But she reached behind her back, unfastened it, and tossed it into the trash. She had firm, shallow breasts with prominent brown nipples. There was a faint red mark on her shoulder where the strap had been too tight. Steve’s throat went dry.

She unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She wore simple black bikini panties. Steve gazed at her openmouthed. Her body was perfect: the strong shoulders, the neat breasts, the flat belly, and the long, sculptured legs. She pushed her panties down, swept them up in a bundle with the skirt, and shoved the bundle into the bin. Her pubic hair was a dense mass of black curls.

She looked blankly at Steve for a moment, almost as if she were not sure what he was doing there. Then she said: “I have to take a shower.” Naked, she walked past him. He looked hungrily at her back, drinking in the details of her shoulder blades, her narrow waist, the swelling curves of her hips, and the muscles of her legs. She was so lovely it hurt.

She left the room. A moment later he heard water running.

“Jesus,” he breathed. He sat on her black couch. What did it mean? Was that some kind of test? What was she trying to say to him?

He smiled. What a wonderful body, so slim and strong and perfectly proportioned. No matter what else happened, he would never forget the way she looked.

She showered for a long time. He realized that in the drama of her accusation he had not told her his mystifying news. At last the water stopped. A minute later she returned to the room in a big fuchsia pink terrycloth robe, wet hair plastered to her head. She sat on the couch beside him and said: “Did I dream it, or did I just strip off in front of you?”

“No dream,” he said. “You dumped your clothes in the trash.”

“My God, I don’t know what came over me.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m glad you trust me so much. I can’t tell you what that means to me.”

“You must think I’m out of my mind.”

“No, but I think you’re probably shocked after what happened to you in Philadelphia.”

“Maybe that’s it. I just remember feeling I had to get rid of the clothes I was wearing when it happened.”

‘This may be the moment to open that bottle of vodka you keep in the freezer.”

She shook her head. “What I really want is some jasmine tea.”

“Let me make it.” He got up and went behind the kitchen counter. “Why are you carrying a garbage bag around?”

“I was fired today. They put all my personal stuff in that bag and locked me out of my room.”

“What?” He was incredulous. “How come?”

“There was an article in the
New York Times
today saying that my use of databases violates people’s privacy. But I think Berrington Jones was just using that as an excuse to get rid of me.”

He burned with indignation. He wanted to protest, to spring to her defense, to save her from this malicious persecution. “Can they dismiss you just like that?”

“No, there’s a hearing tomorrow morning in front of the discipline committee of the university senate.”

“You and I are both having an unbelievably bad week.” He was going to tell her about the DNA test when she picked up the phone.

“I need the number of Greenwood Penitentiary, it’s near Richmond, Virginia.” As Steve filled the kettle, she scribbled a number and dialed again. “May I speak to Warden Temoigne? My name is Dr. Ferrami.…Yes, I’ll hold.…Thank you.… Good evening, Warden, how are you? … I’m fine. This may sound like a silly question, but is Dennis Pinker still in jail? … You’re sure? You saw him with your own eyes? … Thank You And you take care of yourself, too. Bye.” She looked up at Steve. “Dennis is still in jail. The warden spoke to him an hour ago.”

Steve put a spoonful of jasmine tea into the pot and found two cups. “Jeannie, the cops have the result of their DNA test.”

She went very still. “And … ?”

“The DNA from Lisa’s vagina matches the DNA from my blood.”

In a bemused voice she said: “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Someone who looks like me and has my DNA raped Lisa Hoxton on Sunday. The same guy attacked you in Philadelphia today.
And it wasn’t Dennis Pinker.”

Their eyes locked, and Jeannie said: “There are three of you.”

“Jesus Christ.” He felt despairing. “But this is even more unlikely. The cops will never believe it. How could something like this happen?”

“Wait,” she said excitedly. “You don’t know what I discovered this afternoon, before I ran into your double. I have the explanation.”

“Dear God, let this be true.”

She looked concerned. “Steve, you’re going to find it shocking.”

“I don’t care, I just want to understand.”

She reached into the black plastic garbage bag and retrieved a canvas briefcase. “Look at this.” She took out a glossy brochure folded open to the first page. She handed it to Steve and he read the opening paragraph:

The Aventine Clinic was founded in 1972 by Genetico Inc., as a pioneering center for research and development of human
in vitro
fertilization—the creation of what the newspapers call “test-tube babies.”

Steve said: “You think Dennis and I are test-tube babies?”

“Yes.”

He had a strange, nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach. “That’s weird. But what does it explain?”

“Identical twins could be conceived in the laboratory and then implanted in the wombs of different women.”

Steve’s sick feeling got worse. “But did the sperm and egg come from Mom and Dad—or from the Pinkers?”

“I don’t know.”

“So the Pinkers could be my real parents. God.”

“There’s another possibility.”

Steve could see from the worried look on Jeannie’s face that she was afraid this would shock him too. His mind leaped ahead and he guessed what she was going to say. “Maybe the sperm and egg didn’t come from my parents
or
the Pinkers. I could be the child of total strangers.”

She did not reply, but her solemn look told him he was right.

He felt disoriented. It was like a dream in which he suddenly found himself falling through the air. “It’s hard to take in,” he said. The kettle switched itself off. For something to do with his hands, Steve poured boiling water into the teapot. “I’ve never much resembled either Mom or Dad. Do I look like one of the Pinkers?”

“No.”

“Then it’s most probably strangers.”

“Steve, none of this takes away the fact that your mom and dad loved you and raised you and would still give their lives for you.”

With a shaky hand he poured tea into two cups. He gave one to Jeannie and sat beside her on the couch. “How does all this explain the third twin?”

“If there were twins in the test tube, there could have been triplets. It’s the same process: one of the embryos split again. It happens in nature, so I guess it can happen in the laboratory.”

Steve still felt as if he were spinning through the air, but now he began to get another sensation: relief. It was a bizarre story that Jeannie told, but at least it provided a rational explanation of why he had been accused of two brutal crimes.

“Do Mom and Dad know any of this?”

“I don’t believe they do. Your mother and Charlotte Pinker told me they went into the clinic for hormone treatment. In vitro fertilization was not practiced in those days. Genetico must have been years ahead of everyone else with the technique. And I think they tried it without telling their patients what they were doing.”

“No wonder Genetico is scared,” Steve said. “Now I understand why Berrington is so desperate to discredit you.”

“Yeah. What they did was
really
unethical. It makes invasion of privacy look petty.”