The Third Twin

  Steve laughed. "Thanks, Mom."

  "Hey, Steve?"

  "Still here."

  "Don't be late. You have to see a lawyer in the morning. Let's get you out of this legal mess before you start worrying about your DNA."

  "I won't be late. Bye." He hung up.

  Jeannie said: "I'm going to call Charlotte Pinker right away. I hope she's not already asleep." She flicked through Lisa's Rolodex, then picked up the phone and dialed. After a moment she spoke. "Hi, Mrs. Pinker, this is Dr. Ferrami from Jones Falls University.... I'm fine, thank you, how are you? ... I hope you won't mind my asking you one more question.... Well, that's very kind and understanding of you. Yes.... Before you got pregnant with Dennis, did you have any kind of fertility treatment?" There was a long pause, then Jeannie's face lit up with excitement. "In Philadelphia? Yes, I've heard of it Hormone treatment. That's very interesting, that helps me. Thank you again. Good-bye." She cradled the handset. "Bingo," she said. "Charlotte went to the same clinic."

  "That's fantastic," Steve said. "But what does it mean?"

  "I have no idea," Jeannie said. She picked up the phone again and tapped 411. "How do I get Philadelphia information? ... Thanks." She dialed again. "The Aventine Clinic." There was a pause. She looked at Steve and said: "It probably closed years ago."

  He watched her, mesmerized. Her face was alight with enthusiasm as her mind raced ahead. She looked ravishing. He wished he could do more to help her.

  Suddenly she picked up a pencil and scribbled a number. 'Thank you!" she said into the phone. She hung up. "It's still there!"

  Steve was riveted. The mystery of his genes might be resolved. "Records," he said. "The clinic must have records. There might be clues there."

  "I need to go there," Jeannie said. She frowned thoughtfully. "I have a release signed by Charlotte Pinker--we ask everyone we interview to sign one--and it gives us permission to look at any medical records. Could you get your mother to sign one tonight and fax it to me at JFU?"

  "Sure."

  She dialed again, punching the numbers feverishly. "Good evening, is this the Aventine Clinic? ... Do you have a night manager on duty? ... Thank you."

  There was a long pause. She tapped her pencil impatiently. Steve watched adoringly. As far as he was concerned, this could go on all night.

  "Good evening, Mr. Ringwood, this is Dr. Ferrami from the psychology department at Jones Falls University. Two of my research subjects attended your clinic twenty-three years ago and it would be helpful to me to look at their records. I have releases from them which I can fax to you in advance.... That's very helpful. Would tomorrow be too soon? ... Shall we say two P.M.? ... You've been very kind.... I'll do that. Thank you. Good-bye."

  "Fertility clinic," Steve said thoughtfully. "Didn't I read, in that Wall Street Journal piece, that Genetico owns fertility clinics?"

  Jeannie stared at him, openmouthed. "Oh, my God," she said in a low voice. "Of course it does."

  "I wonder if there's any connection?"

  "I just bet there is," said Jeannie.

  "If there is, then ..."

  "Then Berrington Jones may know a lot more about you and Dennis than he's letting on."

  28

  IT HAD BEEN A PIG OF A DAY, BUT IT HAD ENDED ALL RIGHT, Berrington thought as he stepped out of the shower.

  He looked at himself in the mirror. He was in great shape for fifty-nine: lean, upright, with faintly tanned skin and an almost flat stomach. His pubic hair was dark, but that was because. he dyed it to get rid of the embarrassing gray. It was important to him to be able to take off his clothes in front of a woman without turning out the light.

  He had begun the day by thinking he had Jeannie Ferrami over a barrel, but she had proved tougher than he had expected. I won't underestimate her again, he thought.

  On his way back from Washington he had dropped by Preston Barck's house to brief him on the latest development. As always, Preston had been even more worried and pessimistic than the situation warranted. Affected by Preston's mood, Berrington had driven home under a cloud of gloom. But when he had walked into the house the phone had been ringing, and Jim, speaking in an improvised code, had confirmed that David Creane would stop the FBI from cooperating with Jeannie. He had promised to make the necessary phone calls tonight.

  Berrington toweled himself dry and put on blue cotton pajamas and a blue-and-white-striped bathrobe. Marianne, the housekeeper, had the evening off, but there was a casserole in the refrigerator: chicken Provencal, according to the note she had left in careful, childish handwriting. He put it in the oven and poured a small glass of Springbank scotch. As he took the first sip, the phone rang.

  It was his ex-wife, Vivvie. "The Wall Street Journal says you're going to be rich," she said.

  He pictured her, a slender blonde of sixty years, sitting on the terrace of her California house, watching the sun go down over the Pacific Ocean. "I suppose you want to come back to me."

  "I thought about it, Berry. I thought about it very seriously for at least ten seconds. Then I realized a hundred and eighty million dollars wasn't enough."

  That made him laugh.

  "Seriously, Berry, I'm pleased for you."

  He knew she was sincere. She had plenty of money of her own. After leaving him, she had gone into the real estate business in Santa Barbara and had done well. "Thank you."

  "What are you going to do with the money? Leave it to the boy?"

  Their son was studying to be a certified public accountant. "He won't need it, he'll make a fortune as an accountant. I might give some of the money to Jim Proust. He's going to run for president."

  "What'll you get in return? Do you want to be the U.S. ambassador in Paris?"

  "No, but I'd consider surgeon general."

  "Hey, Berry, you're serious about this. But I guess you shouldn't say too much on the phone."

  "True."

  "I gotta go, my date just rang the doorbell. See you sooner, Montezuma." It was an old family joke.

  He gave her the response. "In a flash, succotash." He cradled the phone.

  He found it a little depressing that Vivvie was going out for the evening with a date--he had no idea who it might be--while he was sitting at home alone with his scotch. Apart from the death of his father, Vivvie's leaving him was the great sadness of Berrington's life. He did not blame her for going; he had been hopelessly unfaithful. But he had loved her, and he still missed her, thirteen years after the divorce. The fact that he was at fault only made him sadder. Joshing with her on the phone reminded him of how much fun they had had together in the good times.

  He turned on the TV and watched Prime Time Live while his dinner was warming. The kitchen filled with the fragrance of the herbs Marianne used. She was a great cook. Perhaps it was because Martinique had been a French colony.

  Just as he was taking the casserole out of the oven, the phone rang again. This time it was Preston Barck. He sounded shaken. "I just heard from Dick Minsky in Philadelphia," he said. "Jeannie Ferrami has made an appointment to go to the Aventine Clinic tomorrow."

  Berrington sat down heavily. "Christ on a pony," he said. "How the hell did she get on to the clinic?"

  "I don't know. Dick wasn't there, the night manager took the call. But apparently she said some of her research subjects had treatment years ago and she wanted to check their medical records. Promised to fax over her releases and said she'd be there at two P.M. Thank God Dick happened to call in about something else and the night manager mentioned it."

  Dick Minsky had been one of the first people Genetico had hired, back in the seventies. He had been the mailroom boy then; now he was general manager of the clinics. He had never been a member of the inner circle--only Jim, Preston, and Berrington could ever belong to that club--but he knew that the company's past held secrets. Discretion was automatic with him.

  "What did you tell Dick to do?"

  "Cancel the appointment, of course. If she shows up anyway, turn her away. T
ell her she can't see the records." Berrington shook his head. "Not good enough."

  "Why?"

  "It will just make her more curious. She'll try to find some other way to get at the files."

  "Like how?"

  Berrington sighed. Preston could be unimaginative. "Well, if I were her, I'd call Landsmann, get Michael Madigan's secretary on the phone, and say he ought to look at the Aventine Clinic's records from twenty-three years ago before he closes the takeover deal. That would get him asking questions, wouldn't it?"

  "Well, what do you suggest?" Preston said tetchily.

  "I think we're going to have to shred all the record cards from the seventies."

  There was a moment of silence. "Berry, those records are unique. Scientifically, they're priceless--"

  "You think I don't know that?" Berrington snapped.

  "There must be another way."

  Berrington sighed. He felt as bad as Preston did about it. He had fondly imagined that one day, many years in the future, someone would write the story of their pioneering experiments, and their boldness and scientific brilliance would be revealed to the world. It broke his heart to see the historical evidence wiped out in this guilty and underhand way. But it was inevitable now. "While the records exist, they're a threat to us. They have to be destroyed. And it had better be done right away."

  "What'll we tell the staff?"

  "Shit, I don't know, Preston, make something up, for Christ's sake. New corporate document management strategy. So long as they start shredding first thing in the morning I don't care what you tell them."

  "I guess you're right. Okay, I'll get back to Dick right away. Will you call Jim and bring him up-to-date?"

  "Sure."

  "Bye."

  Berrington dialed Jim Proust's home number. His wife, a wispy woman with a downtrodden air, answered the phone and put Jim on. "I'm in bed, Berry, what the hell is it now?"

  The three of them were getting very snappy with one another.

  Berrington told Jim what Preston had reported and the action they had decided on.

  "Good move," Jim said. "But it's not enough. There are other ways this Ferrami woman could come at us."

  Berrington felt a spasm of irritation. Nothing was ever enough for Jim. No matter what you proposed, Jim would always want tougher action, more extreme measures. Then he suppressed his annoyance. Jim was making sense this time, he reflected. Jeannie had proved to be a real bloodhound, unwavering in her pursuit of the scent. One setback would not make her give up. "I agree," he said to Jim. "And Steve Logan is out of jail, I heard earlier today, so she's not entirely alone. We have to deal with her long term."

  "She has to be scared off."

  "Jim, for Christ's sake--"

  "I know this brings out the wimp in you, Berry, but it has to be done."

  "Forget it."

  "Look--"

  "I have a better idea, Jim, if you'll listen for a minute."

  "Okay, I'm listening."

  "I'm going to have her fired."

  Jim thought about it for a while. "I don't know--will that do it?"

  "Sure. Look, she imagines she's stumbled on a biological anomaly. It's the kind of thing that could make a young scientist's career. She has no idea of what's underneath all this; she believes the university is just afraid of bad publicity. If she loses her job, she'll have no facilities to pursue her investigation, and no reason to stick to it. Besides, she'll be too busy looking for another job. I happen to know she needs money."

  "Maybe you're right."

  Berrington was suspicious. Jim was agreeing too readily. "You're not planning to do something on your own, are you?" he said.

  Jim evaded the question. "Can you do that, can you get her fired?"

  "Sure."

  "But you told me Tuesday that it's a university, not the fucking army."

  "That's true, you can't just yell at people and they do what you told them. But I've been in the academic world for most of the last forty years. I know how to work the machinery. When it's really necessary, I can get rid of an assistant professor without breaking a sweat."

  "Okay."

  Berrington frowned. "We're together on this, right, Jim?"

  "Right."

  "Okay. Sleep well."

  "Good night."

  Berrington hung up the phone. His chicken Provencal was cold. He dumped it in the trash and went to bed.

  He lay awake for a long time, thinking about Jeannie Ferrami. At two A.M. he got up and took a Dalmane. Then, at last, he went to sleep.

  29

  IT WAS A HOT NIGHT IN PHILADELPHIA. IN THE TENEMENT building, all the doors and windows were open: none of the rooms had air-conditioning. The sounds of the street floated up to apartment 5A on the top floor: car horns, laughter, snatches of music. On a cheap pine desk, scratched and marked with old cigarette burns, a phone was ringing.

  He picked it up.

  A voice like a bark said: "This is Jim."

  "Hey, Uncle Jim, how are you?"

  "I'm worried about you."

  "How so?"

  "I know what happened on Sunday night."

  He hesitated, not sure how to reply. "They've arrested someone for that."

  "But his girlfriend thinks he's innocent."

  "So?"

  "She's coming to Philadelphia tomorrow."

  "What for?"

  "I'm not sure. But I think she's a danger." "Shit."

  "You may want to do something about her."

  "Such as?"

  "It's up to you."

  "How would I find her?"

  "Do you know the Aventine Clinic? It's in your neighborhood."

  "Sure, it's on Chestnut, I pass it every day."

  "She'll be there at two P.M.."

  "How will I know her?"

  "Tall, dark hair, pierced nostril, about thirty."

  "That could be a lot of women."

  "She'll probably be driving an old red Mercedes."

  "That narrows it down."

  "Now, bear in mind, the other guy is out on bail." He frowned. "So what?"

  "So, if she should meet with an accident, after she's been seen with you ..."

  "I get it. They'll assume it was him."

  "You always were quick thinking, my boy."

  He laughed. "And you always were mean thinking, Uncle."

  "One more thing."

  "I'm listening."

  "She's beautiful. So enjoy."

  "Bye, Uncle Jim. And thanks."

  THURSDAY

  30

  JEANNIE HAD THE THUNDERBIRD DREAM AGAIN.

  The first part of the dream was something that really happened, when she was nine and her sister was six, and their father was--briefly--living with them. He was flush with money at the time (and it was not until years later that Jeannie realized he must have got it from a successful' robbery). He brought home a new Ford Thunderbird with a turquoise paint job and matching turquoise upholstery, the most beautiful car imaginable to a nine-year-old girl. They all went for a ride, Jeannie and Patty sitting in the front on the bench seat between Daddy and Mom. As they were cruising along the George Washington Memorial Parkway, Daddy put Jeannie on his lap and let her take the wheel.

  In real life, she had steered the car into the fast lane and got a fright when a car that was trying to pass honked loudly and Daddy jerked the wheel and brought the Thunderbird back on track. But in the dream Daddy was no longer there, she was driving without help, and Mom and Patty sat quite unperturbed beside her even though they knew she couldn't see over the dashboard, and she just gripped the wheel tighter and tighter and tighter, waiting for the crash, while the other cars honked the doorbell at her louder and louder.

  She woke up with her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands and the insistent chime of her doorbell in her ears. It was six AM. She lay still for a moment, savoring the relief that washed over her from the realization that it was only a dream. Then she jumped out of bed and went to the entry ph
one. "Hello?"

  "It's Ghita, wake up and let me in."

  Ghita lived in Baltimore and worked at FBI headquarters in Washington. She must be on her way to the office for an early start, Jeannie thought. She pressed the button that opened the door.

  Jeannie pulled on an oversize T-shirt that reached almost to her knees; it was decent enough for a girlfriend. Ghita came up the stairs, the picture of a fast-rising corporate executive in a navy linen suit, black hair cut in a bob, stud earrings, large lightweight glasses, New York Times under her arm. "What the hell is going on?" Ghita said without preamble.

  Jeannie said: "I don't know, I just woke up." This was going to be bad news, she could tell.

  "My boss called me at home late last night and told me to have nothing more to do with you."

  "No!" She needed the FBI results to show that her method worked, despite the puzzle of Steven and Dennis. "Damn! Did he say why?"

  "Claimed your methods infringed people's privacy."

  "Unusual for the FBI to worry about a little thing like that."

  "It seems the New York Times feels the same way." Ghita showed Jeannie the newspaper. On the front page was an article headed

  GENE RESEARCH ETHICS:

  DOUBTS, FEARS AND A SQUABBLE

  Jeannie was afraid the "squabble" was a reference to her own situation, and she was right.

  Jean Ferrami is a determined young woman. Against the wishes of her scientific colleagues and the president of Jones Falls University in Baltimore, Md., she stubbornly insists on continuing to scan medical records, looking for twins.

  "I've got a contract," she says. "They can't give me orders." And doubts about the ethics of her work will not shake her resolve.

  Jeannie had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. "My God, this is awful," she said.

  The report then moved on to another topic, research on human embryos; and Jeannie had to turn to page nineteen before she found another reference to herself.

  A new headache for college authorities has been created by the case of Dr. Jean Ferrami of the psychology department at Jones Falls. Although the university president, Dr. Maurice Obell, and leading psychologist Prof. Berrington Jones both agree her work is unethical, she refuses to stop--and there may be nothing they can do to compel her.

  Jeannie read to the end, but the newspaper did not report her insistence that her work was ethically blameless. The focus was entirely on the drama of her defiance.