the Third Twin

14

BERRINGTON JONES DROVE HOME SLOWLY. HE FELT DISAPPOINTED and relieved at the same time. Like a dieter who wrestles with temptation all the way to the ice-cream parlor, then finds it closed, he had been saved from something he knew he ought not to do.

He was no closer to solving the problem of Jeannie’s project and what it might uncover, however. Maybe he should have spent more time questioning her and less having fun. He frowned in perplexity as he parked outside the house and went in.

The place was quiet: Marianne, the housekeeper, must have gone to bed. He went into the den and checked his answering machine. There was one message.

“Professor, this is Sergeant Delaware from the Sex Crimes Unit calling on Monday night. I appreciate your cooperation today.” Berrington shrugged. He had done little more than confirm that Lisa Hoxton worked at Nut House. She went on: “As you are Ms. Hoxton’s employer and the rape took place on campus, I thought I should tell you we have arrested a man this evening. In fact, he was a subject at your laboratory today. His name is Steven Logan.”

“Jesus!” Berrington burst out.

“The victim picked him out at the lineup, so I’m sure the DNA test will confirm that he is the man. Please pass this information on to any others at the college whom you think appropriate. Thank you.”

“No!” Berrington said. He sat down heavily. “No,” he said more quietly.

Then he began to weep.

After a moment he got up, still crying, and closed the study door, for fear the maid might come in. Then he returned to his desk and buried his head in his hands.

He stayed that way for some time.

When at last the tears dried up, he lifted the phone and called a number he knew by heart.

“Not the answering machine, please, God,” he said aloud as he listened to it ring out.

A young man answered. “Hello?”

“This is me,” Berrington said.

“Hey, how are you?”

“Desolate.”

“Oh.” The tone was guilty.

If Berrington had any doubts, that note in the voice swept them away. “You know what I’m calling about, don’t you.”

“Tell me.”

“Don’t play games with me, please. I’m talking about Sunday night.”

The young man sighed. “Okay.”

“You goddamn fool. You went to the campus, didn’t you? You—” He realized he should not say too much on the phone. “You did it again.”

“I’m sorry—”

“You’re sorry!”

“How did you know?”

“At first I didn’t suspect you—I thought you’d left town. Then they arrested someone who looks just like you.”

“Wow! That means I’m—”

“You’re off the hook.”

“Wow. What a break. Listen …”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t say anything. To the police, or anything.”

“No, I won’t say a word,” Berrington said with a heavy heart. “You can rely on me.”