The Third Twin Part 5

"What's her name?"

"I don't know." Steve smiled ruefully. "She gave me the brush-off without breaking stride. I'll probably never see her again in my life."

Ricky poured coffee. "Maybe it's for the best-you have a steady date, don't you?"

"Sort of." Steve had felt a little guilty, being so attracted to the tennis player. "Her name is Celine," he said. "We study together." Steve went to school in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

"You sleeping with her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't feel that level of commitment."

Ricky looked surprised. "This is a language I don't speak. You have to feel committed to a girl before you f.u.c.k her?"

Steve was embarra.s.sed. "It's just the way I feel, you know?"

"Have you always felt that way?"

"No. When I was in high school I did whatever girls would let me do, it was like a contest or something. I would bone any pretty girl who would take her panties off...but that was then, and this is now, and I'm not a kid anymore. I think."

"How old are you, twenty-two?"

"Right."

"I'm twenty-five, but I guess I'm not as grown-up as you."

Steve detected a note of resentment. "Hey, it's not a criticism, okay?"

"Okay." Ricky did not seem seriously offended. "So what did you do, after she gave you the brush-off?"

"Went to a bar in Charles Village and had a couple beers and a hamburger."

"That reminds me-I'm hungry. Want something to eat?"

"What have you got?"

Ricky opened a cupboard. "Boo Berry, Rice Krispies, or Count Chocula."

"Oh, boy, Count Chocula sounds great." Ricky put bowls and milk on the table, and they both dug in.

When they had finished, they rinsed their cereal bowls and got ready for bed. Steve lay on the couch in his undershorts: it was too hot for a blanket. Ricky took the bed. Before they went to sleep, Ricky said: "So what are you going to do at Jones Falls?"

"They asked me to be part of a study. I have to have psychological tests and stuff."

"Why you?"

"I don't know. They said I was a special case, and they would explain everything when I get there."

"What made you say yes? Sounds like kind of a waste of time."

Steve had a special reason, but he was not going to tell Ricky. His answer was part of the truth. "Curiosity, I guess. I mean, don't you wonder about yourself? Like, what kind of person am I really, and what do I want in life?"

"I want to be a hotshot surgeon and make a million bucks a year doing breast implants. I guess I'm a simple soul."

"Don't you ask yourself what's it all for?"

Ricky laughed. "No, Steve, I don't. But you do. You were always a thinker. Even when we were kids, you used to wonder about G.o.d and stuff."

It was true. Steve had gone through a religious phase at about age thirteen. He had visited several different churches, a synagogue, and a mosque, and earnestly questioned a series of bemused clergymen about their beliefs. It had mystified his parents, who were both unconcerned agnostics.

"But you were always a little bit different," Ricky went on. "I never knew anyone who could score so high in tests without breaking a sweat."

That was true, too. Steve had always been a quick study, effortlessly making top of the cla.s.s, except when the other kids teased him and he made deliberate mistakes just to be less conspicuous.

But there was another reason why he was curious about his own psychology. Ricky did not know about it. n.o.body at law school knew. Only his parents knew.

Steve had almost killed someone.

He was fifteen at the time, already tall but thin. He was captain of the basketball team. That year, Hillsfield High made it to the city champions.h.i.+p semifinal. They played against a team of ruthless street fighters from a Was.h.i.+ngton slum school. One particular opponent, a boy called Tip Hendricks, fouled Steve all through the match. Tip was good, but he used all his skill to cheat. And every time he did it he would grin, as if to say "Got you again, sucker!" It drove Steve wild, but he had to keep his fury inside. All the same he played badly and the team lost, missing their chance at the trophy.

By the worst of bad luck, Steve ran into Tip in the parking lot, where the buses were waiting to take the teams back to their schools. Fatally, one of the drivers was changing a wheel and had a tool kit open on the ground.

Steve ignored Tip, but Tip flicked his cigarette b.u.t.t at Steve, and it landed on his jacket.

That jacket meant a lot to Steve. He had saved up his earnings from working Sat.u.r.days at McDonald's, and he had bought the d.a.m.n thing the day before. It was a beautiful tan blouson made of soft leather the color of b.u.t.ter, and now it had a burn mark right on the chest, where you could not help but see it. It was ruined. So Steve hit him.

Tip fought back fiercely, kicking and b.u.t.ting, but Steve's rage numbed him and he hardly felt the blows. Tip's face was covered in blood by the time his eye fell on the busdriver's tool kit and he picked up a tire iron. He hit Steve across the face with it twice. The blows really hurt, and Steve's rage became blind. He got the iron away from Tip-and he could remember nothing, after that, until he was standing over Tip's body, with the bloodstained iron bar in his hand, and someone else was saying, "Jesus Christ Almighty, I think he's dead."

Tip was not dead, though he did die two years later, killed by a Jamaican marijuana importer to whom he owed eighty-five dollars. But Steve had wanted to kill him, had tried tried to kill him. He had no real excuse: he had struck the first blow, and although Tip had been the one to pick up the tire iron, Steve had used it savagely. to kill him. He had no real excuse: he had struck the first blow, and although Tip had been the one to pick up the tire iron, Steve had used it savagely.

Steve was sentenced to six months in prison, but the sentence was suspended. After the trial he went to a different school and pa.s.sed all his exams as usual. Because he had been a juvenile at the time of the fight, his criminal record could not be disclosed to anyone, so it did not prevent his getting into law school. Mom and Dad now thought of it as a nightmare that was over. But Steve had doubts. He knew it was only good luck and the resilience of the human body that had saved him from a murder trial. Tip Hendricks was a human being, and Steve had almost killed him for a jacket. jacket. As he listened to Ricky's untroubled breathing across the room, he lay awake on the couch and thought: What am I? As he listened to Ricky's untroubled breathing across the room, he lay awake on the couch and thought: What am I?

MONDAY.

[image]

5.

"DID YOU EVER MEET A MAN YOU WANTED TO MARRY?" Lisa said. Lisa said.

They were sitting at the table in Lisa's apartment, drinking instant coffee. Everything about the place was pretty, like Lisa: flowered prints, china ornaments, and a teddy bear with a spotted bow tie.

Lisa was going to take the day off, but Jeannie was dressed for work in a navy skirt and white cotton blouse. It was an important day, and she was jumpy with tension. The first of her subjects was coming to the lab for tests. Would he fit in with her theory or flout it? By the end of the afternoon she would either feel vindicated or be painfully reappraising her ideas.

However, she did not want to leave until the last possible moment. Lisa was still very fragile. Jeannie figured the best thing she could do was sit and talk to her about men and s.e.x the way they always did, help her get on the road back to normality. She would have liked to stay here all morning, but she could not. She was really sorry lisa would not be at the lab to help her today, but it was out of the question.

"Yeah, one," Jeannie said in answer to the question. "There was one guy I wanted to marry. His name was Will Temple. He was an anthropologist. Still is." Jeannie could see him now, a big man with a fair beard, in blue jeans and a fisherman's sweater, carrying his ten-speed bicycle through the corridors of the university.

"You've mentioned him before," Lisa said. "What was he like?"

"He was great" Jeannie sighed. "He made me laugh, he took care of me when I was sick, he ironed his own s.h.i.+rts, and he was hung like a horse."

Lisa did not smile. "What went wrong?"

Jeannie was being flip, but it hurt her to remember. "He left me for Georgina Tinkerton Ross." As if by way of explanation, she added: "Of the Pittsburgh Tinkerton Rosses."

"What was she like?"

The last thing Jeannie wanted to do was recall Georgina. However, this was taking Lisa's mind off the rape, so she forced herself to reminisce. "She was perfect," she said, and she disliked the bitter sarcasm she heard in her own voice. "Strawberry blond, hourgla.s.s figure, impeccable taste in cashmere sweaters and crocodile shoes. No brain, but a h.e.l.l of a big trust fund."

"When did all this happen?"

"Will and I lived together for a year when I was doing my doctorate." It had been the happiest time she could remember. "He moved out while I was writing my article on whether criminality is genetic." Great timing, Will. I just wish I could hate you more. Great timing, Will. I just wish I could hate you more. "Then Berrington offered me a job at Jones Falls and I jumped at it." "Then Berrington offered me a job at Jones Falls and I jumped at it."

"Men are creeps."

"Will isn't really a creep. He's a beautiful guy. He fell for someone else, that's all. I think he showed really bad judgment in his choice. But it's not like we were married or anything. He didn't break any promises. He wasn't even unfaithful to me, except maybe once or twice before he told me." Jeannie realized she was repeating Will's own words of self-justification. "I don't know, maybe he was a creep after all."

"Maybe we should return to Victorian times, when a man who kissed a woman considered himself engaged. At least girls knew where they were."

Right now Lisa's perspective on relations.h.i.+ps was pretty skewed, but Jeannie did not say so. Instead she asked: "What about you? Did you ever find one you wanted to marry?"

"Never. Not one."

"You and I have high standards. Don't worry, when Mr. Right comes along he'll be wonderful."

The entry phone sounded, startling them both. Lisa jumped up, b.u.mping the table. A porcelain vase fell to the floor and shattered, and Lisa said: "G.o.dd.a.m.n "G.o.dd.a.m.n it." it."

She was still right on the edge. "I'll pick up the pieces," Jeannie said in a soothing voice. "You see who's at the door."

Lisa picked up the handset. A troubled frown crossed her face, and she studied the image on the monitor. "All right, I guess," she said dubiously, and she pressed the b.u.t.ton that opened the building door.

"Who is it?" Jeannie asked.

"A detective from the s.e.x Crimes Unit."

Jeannie had been afraid they would send someone to bully Lisa into cooperating with the investigation. She was determined they would not succeed. The last thing Lisa needed now was more intrusive questions. "Why didn't you tell him to f.u.c.k off?"

"Maybe because she's black," Lisa said.

"No kidding?"

Lisa shook her head.

How clever, Jeannie thought as she swept shards of porcelain into her cupped hand. The cops knew she and Lisa were hostile. If they had sent a white male detective he would not have got through the door. So they sent a black woman, knowing that two middle-cla.s.s white girls would bend over backward to be polite to her. Well, if she tries to push Lisa around I'll throw her out of here just the same, Jeannie thought.

She turned out to be a stocky woman of about forty, smartly dressed in a cream blouse with a colorful silk scarf, carrying a briefcase. "I'm Sergeant Mich.e.l.le Delaware," she said. "They call me Mish."

Jeannie wondered what was in the briefcase. Detectives usually carried guns, not papers. "I'm Dr. Jean Ferrami," Jeannie said. She always used her t.i.tle when she thought she was going to quarrel with someone. "This is Lisa Hoxton."

The detective said: "Ms. Hoxton, I want to say how sorry I am about what happened to you yesterday: My unit deals with one rape a day, on average, and every single one is a terrible tragedy and a wounding trauma for the victim. I know you're hurting and I understand."

Wow, Jeannie thought, this is different from yesterday.

"I'm trying to put it behind me," Lisa said defiantly, but tears came to her eyes and betrayed her.

"May I sit down?"

"Of course."

The detective sat at the kitchen table.

Jeannie studied her warily. "Your att.i.tude seems different from the patrolman's," she said.

Mish nodded. "I'm also deeply sorry about McHenty and the way he treated you. Like all patrolmen he has received training on how to deal with rape victims, but he seems to have forgotten what he was taught. I'm embarra.s.sed for the entire police department."

"It was like being violated all over again," Lisa said tearfully.

"It's not supposed to happen anymore," Mish said, and a note of anger crept into her voice. "This is how so many rape cases end up in a drawer marked 'Unfounded.' It's not because women lie about rape. It's because the justice system treats them so brutally that they withdraw the complaint."

Jeannie said: "I can believe that." She told herself to be careful: Mish might talk like a sister, but she was still a cop.

Mish took a card from her purse. "Here's the number of a volunteer center for victims of rape and child abuse," she said. "Sooner or later, every victim needs counseling."

Lisa took the card, but she said: "Right now all I want is to forget it."

Mish nodded. "Take my advice, put the card in a drawer. Your feelings go through cycles, and there will probably come a time when you're ready to seek help."

"Okay."

Jeannie decided that Mish had earned a little courtesy. "Would you like some coffee?" she offered. "I'd love a cup."

"I'll make some fresh." Jeannie got up and filled the coffee maker.

Mish said: "Do you two work together?"

"Yes," Jeannie replied. "We study twins."