The Third Twin (32 page)

42

I
T WAS GETTING DARK AS THEY ENTERED THE
J
ONES
F
ALLS
campus. “Pity we don’t have a more anonymous car,” her father said as Jeannie drove the red Mercedes into the student parking lot. “A Ford Taurus is good, or a Buick Regal. You see fifty of those a day, nobody remembers them.”

He got out of the car, carrying a battered tan leather briefcase. In his checked shirt and rumpled pants, with untidy hair and worn shoes, he looked just like a professor.

Jeannie felt strange. She had known for years that her daddy

was a thief, but she herself had never done anything more illegal than driving at seventy miles an hour. Now she was about to break into a building. It felt like crossing an important line. She did not think she was doing wrong but, all the same, her self-image was shaken. She had always thought of herself as a law-abiding citizen. Criminals, including her father, had always seemed to belong to another species. Now she was joining them.

Most of the students and faculty had gone home, but there were still a few people walking around: professors working late, students going to social events, janitors locking up, and security guards patrolling. Jeannie hoped she would not see anyone she knew.

She was wound up tight like a guitar string, ready to snap. She was afraid for her father more than herself. If they were caught it would be deeply humiliating for her, but that was all; the courts did not send you to jail for breaking into your own office and stealing one floppy disk. But Daddy, with his record, would go down for years. He would be an old man when he came out.

The street lamps and exterior building lights were beginning to come on. Jeannie and her father walked past the tennis court, where two women were playing under floodlights. Jeannie remembered Steve speaking to her after the game last Sunday. She had given him the brush-off automatically, he had looked so confident and pleased with himself. How wrong she had been in her first judgment of him.

She nodded toward the Ruth W. Acorn Psychology Building. “That’s the place,” she said. “Everyone calls it Nut House.”

“Keep walking at the same speed,” he said. “How do you get in that front door?”

“A plastic card, same as my office door. But my card doesn’t work anymore. I might be able to borrow one.”

“No need. I hate accomplices. How do we get around the back?”

“I’ll show you.” A footpath across a lawn led past the far side of Nut House toward the visitors’ parking lot. Jeannie followed it, then turned off to a paved yard at the back of the building. Her father ran a professional eye over the rear elevation. “What’s that door?” he said, pointing. “I think it’s a fire door.”

He nodded. “It probably has a crossbar at waist level, the kind that opens the door if you push against it.”

“I believe it does. Is that where we’re going to get in?”

“Yes.”

Jeannie remembered a sign on the inside of it that read T
HIS
D
OOR
Is A
LARMED
. “You’ll set off an alarm,” she said.

“No, I won’t,” he replied. He looked around. “Do many people come around the back here?”

“No. Especially at night.”

“Okay. Let’s go to work.” He put his briefcase on the ground, opened it, and took out a small black plastic box with a dial. Pressing a button, he ran the box all around the door frame, watching the dial. The needle jumped in the top right-hand corner. He gave a grunt of satisfaction.

He returned the box to the briefcase and took out another similar instrument, plus a roll of electrician’s tape. He taped the instrument to the top right-hand corner of the door and threw a switch. There was a low hum. “That should confuse the burglar alarm,” he said.

He took out a long piece of wire that had once been a laundry shirt hanger. He bent it carefully into a twisted shape, then inserted the hooked end into the crack of the door. He wiggled it for a few seconds, then pulled.

The door came open.

The alarm did not sound.

He picked up his briefcase and stepped inside.

“Wait,” Jeannie said. “This isn’t right. Close the door and let’s go home.”

“Hey, come on, don’t be scared.”

“I can’t do this to you. If you’re caught, you’ll be in jail until you’re seventy years old.”

“Jeannie, I
want
to do this. I’ve been a rotten father to you for so long. This is my chance to help you for a change. It’s important to me. Come on, please.”

Jeannie stepped inside.

He closed the door. “Lead the way.”

She ran up the fire stairs to the second floor and hurried along the corridor to her office. He was right behind her. She pointed to the door.

He took yet another electronic instrument out of his briefcase. This one had a metal plate the size of a charge card attached to it by wires. He inserted the plate into the card reader and switched on the instrument. “It tries every possible combination,” he said.

She was amazed by how easily he had entered a building that had such up-to-date security.

“You know something?” he said. “I ain’t scared!”

“Jesus, I am,” Jeannie said.

“No, seriously, I got my nerve back, maybe because you’re with me.” He grinned, “Hey, we could be a team.”

She shook her head. “Forget it. I couldn’t stand the tension.”

It occurred to her that Berrington might have come in here and carried away her computer and all her disks. It would be dreadful if she had taken this awful risk for nothing. “How long will this take?” she said impatiently.

“Any second now.”

A moment later the door gently swung open.

“Won’t you step inside?” he said proudly.

She went in and turned on the light. Her computer was still on the desk. Jeannie opened the drawer. There was her box of backup disks. She flipped through them frenziedly. SHOPPING.LST was there. She picked it up. “Thank God,” she said.

Now that she had the disk in her hand she could not wait to read the information on it. Desperate though she was to get out of Nut House, she was tempted to look at the file right here and now. She did not have a computer at home; Daddy had sold it. To read the disk she would have to borrow a PC. That would take time and explanations.

She decided to take a chance.

She switched on the computer on her desk and waited for it to boot up.

“What are you doing?” Daddy said.

“I want to read the file.”

“Can’t you do that at home?”

“I don’t have a computer at home, Daddy. It was stolen.”

He missed the irony. “Hurry up, then.” He went to the window and looked out.

The screen flickered and she clicked on WP. She slid the floppy into the disk drive and switched on her printer.

The alarms went off all at once.

Jeannie thought her heart had stopped. The noise was deafening. “What happened?” she yelled.

Her father was white with fear. “That damn emitter must have failed, or maybe someone took it off the door,” he yelled. “We’re finished, Jeannie, run!”

She wanted to snatch the disk out of the computer and bolt, but she forced herself to think coolly. If she were caught now and the disk taken from her, she would have lost everything. She had to look at the list while she could. She grabbed her father’s arm. “Just a few more seconds!”

He glanced out of the window. “Damn, that looks like a security man!”

“I just have to print this! Wait for me!”

He was shaking. “I can’t, Jeannie, I can’t! I’m sorry!” He snatched up his briefcase and ran.

Jeannie felt pity for him, but she could not stop now. She retrieved the A-drive directory, highlighted the FBI file, and clicked on Print.

Nothing happened. Her printer was still warming up. She cursed.

She went to the window. Two security guards were entering the front of the building.

She closed her office door.

She stared at her inkjet printer. “Come on, come
on
.”

At last it ticked and whirred and sucked up a sheet from the paper tray.

She sprung the floppy out of the disk drive and slipped it into the pocket of her electric blue jacket.

The printer regurgitated four sheets of paper then stopped.

Heart pounding, Jeannie snatched up the pages and scanned the lines of print.

There were thirty or forty pairs of names. Most were male, but this was not surprising: almost all crimes were committed by men. In some cases the address was a prison. The list was exactly what she had hoped for. But now she wanted something special. She looked for either “Steven Logan” or “Dennis Pinker.”

Both were there.

And they were linked with a third: “Wayne Stattner.”

“Yes!” Jeannie shouted exultantly.

There was an address in New York City and a 212 phone number.

She stared at the name.
Wayne Stattner.
This was the man who had raped Lisa right here in the gym and attacked Jeannie in Philadelphia. “You bastard,” she whispered vengefully. “We’re going to get you.”

First she had to escape with the information. She stuffed the papers into her pocket, switched out the lights, and opened the door.

She heard voices in the corridor, raised against the noise of the alarm which was still wailing. She was too late. Carefully, she closed the door again. Her legs felt weak, and she leaned on the door, listening.

She heard a man’s voice shout: “I’m sure there was a light on in one of these.”

Another voice replied: “We better check each one.”

Jeannie glanced around the little room in the dim light from the street lamps outside. There was nowhere to hide.

She opened the door a crack. She could not see or hear anything. She poked her head out. At the far end of the corridor light streamed out of an open door. She waited and watched. The guards came out, killed the light, closed the door, and went into the next room, which was the laboratory. It would take them a minute or two to search that. Could she slip past the door unseen and make it to the stairwell?

Jeannie stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind her with a shaky hand.

She walked along the corridor. By an effort of will she restrained herself from breaking into a run.

She passed the lab door. She could not resist the temptation to glance inside. Both guards had their backs to her; one was looking inside a stationery closet and the other was staring curiously at a row of DNA test films on a light box. They did not see her.

Almost there.

She walked on to the end of the corridor and opened the swing door.

As she was about to step through, a voice called out: “Hey! You! Stop!”

Every nerve strained to make a run for it, but she controlled herself. She let the door swing closed, turned, and smiled.

Two guards ran along the corridor toward her. They were both men in their late fifties, probably retired cops.

Her throat was tight and she had trouble breathing. “Good evening,” she said. “How can I help you gentlemen?” The sound of the alarm covered the tremor in her voice.

“An alarm has gone off in the building,” said one.

It was a stupid thing to say, but she let it pass. “Do you think there’s an intruder?”

“There may be. Have you seen or heard anything unusual, Professor?”

The guards assumed she was a faculty member; that was good. “As a matter of fact, I thought I heard breaking glass. It seemed to come from the floor above, although I couldn’t be sure.”

The two guards looked at one another. “We’ll check it out,” said one.

The other was less suggestible. “May I ask what you have in your pocket?”

“Some papers.”

“Obviously. May I see them?”

Jeannie was not going to hand them over to anyone; they were too precious. Improvising, she pretended to agree then change her mind. “Sure,” she said, taking them out. Then she folded them and put them back in. “On second thought, no, you can’t. They’re personal.”

“I have to insist. In our training we’re told that papers can be as valuable as anything else in a place like this.”

“I’m afraid I’m not going to let you read my private correspondence just because an alarm goes off in a college building.”

“In that case, I must ask you to come with me to our security office and speak to my supervisor.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll meet you outside.” She backed quickly through the swing door and went light-footed down the stairs.

The guards came running after her. “Wait!”

She let them catch up with her in the ground-floor lobby. One took her arm while the other opened the door. They stepped outside.

“No need to hold me,” she said.

“I prefer to.” he said. He was panting from the effort of chasing her down the stairs.

She had been here before. She grasped the wrist of the hand that was holding her and squeezed hard. The guard said, “Ow!” and released her.

Jeannie ran.

“Hey! You bitch, stop!” They gave chase.

They had no chance. She was twenty-five years younger and as fit as a racehorse. Her fear left her as she got farther away from the two men. She ran like the wind, laughing. They chased her for a few yards then gave up. She looked back and saw them both bent over, panting.

She ran all the way to the parking lot.

Her father was waiting beside her car. She unlocked it and they both got in. She tore out of the parking lot with her lights off.

“I’m sorry, Jeannie,” he said. “I thought even if I couldn’t do it for myself, maybe I could do it for you. But it’s no use. I’ve lost it. I’ll never rob again.”

“That’s good news!” she said. “And I got what I wanted!”

“I wish I could be a good father to you. I guess it’s too late to start.”

She drove out of the campus into the street and turned on her headlights. “It’s not too late, Daddy. Really it’s not.”

“Maybe. I tried for you, anyway, didn’t I?”

“You tried, and you succeeded! You got me in! I couldn’t have done it alone.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

She drove home fast. She was anxious to check the phone number on the printout. If it was out-of-date she had a problem. And she wanted to hear Wayne Stattner’s voice.