the Third Twin (1996)

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 phone. “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.

It was shocking and painful to be attacked this way. She felt hurt and outraged at the same time, the way she had when a thief had knocked her flying and snatched her billfold in a supermarket in Minneapolis years ago. Even though she knew the reporter was malicious and unscrupulous, she was ashamed, as if she had really done wrong. And she felt exposed, held up to the scorn of the nation.

“I may have trouble finding anyone who will let me scan a database now,” she said despondently. “Do you want some coffee? I need something to cheer me up. Not many days start as badly as this.”

“I’m sorry, Jeannie, but I’m in trouble too, for getting the Bureau involved.”

As Jeannie started the coffee machine, she was struck by a thought. “This article is unfair, but if your boss spoke to you last night, it can’t have been the newspaper that prompted his call.”

“Maybe he knew the article was coming.”

“I wonder who tipped him off?”

“He didn’t say exactly, but he told me he had had a phone call from Capitol Hill.”

Jeannie frowned. “It sounds as if this is political. Why the hell would a congressman or senator be interested enough in what I’m doing to tell the FBI not to work with me?”

“Maybe it was just a friendly warning from someone who knew about the article.”

Jeannie shook her head. “The article doesn’t mention the Bureau. Nobody else knows I’m working on FBI files. I didn’t even tell Berrington.”

“I’ll try to find out who the call came from.”

Jeannie looked in her freezer. “Have you had breakfast? I have cinnamon buns.”

“No, thanks.”

“I guess I’m not hungry either.” She closed the refrigerator door. She felt despairing. Was there nothing she could do? “Ghita, I don’t suppose you could run my scan without your boss’s knowledge?”

She did not have much hope that Ghita would agree. But the answer surprised her. Ghita frowned and said: “Didn’t you get my E-mail yesterday?”

“I left early. What did it say?”

“That I was going to run your scan last night.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. That’s why I’ve come to see you. I did it last night, before he called me.”

Suddenly Jeannie was hopeful again. “What? And you have the results?”

“I sent them to you by E-mail.”

Jeannie was thrilled. “But that’s great! Did you look? Were there many twins?”

“Quite a lot, twenty or thirty pairs.”

“That’s great! That means the system works!”

“But I told my boss I hadn’t run the scan. I was scared and I lied.”

Jeannie frowned. “That’s awkward. I mean, what if he finds out, at some time in the future?”

“Exactly. Jeannie, you have to destroy that list.”

“What?”

“If he ever finds out about it, I’m finished.”

“But I can’t destroy it! Not if it proves me right!”

Ghita’s face set in determined lines. “You have to.”

“This is awful,” Jeannie said miserably. “How can I destroy something that might save me?”

“I got into this by doing you a favor,” Ghita said, wagging a finger. “You have to get me out of it!”

Jeannie did not see that it was entirely her fault. With a touch of acerbity she said: “I didn’t tell you to lie to your boss.”

That angered Ghita. “I was scared!”

“Wait a minute,” Jeannie said. “Let’s stay cool.” She poured coffee into mugs and gave Ghita one. “Suppose you go into work today and tell your boss there was a misunderstanding. You gave instructions that the sweep should be canceled, but you later found it had already been carried out and the results E-mailed.”

Ghita took her coffee but did not drink it. She seemed close to tears. “Can you imagine working for the FBI? I’m up against the most macho men in Middle America. They’re looking for any excuse to say that women can’t hack it.”

“But you won’t get fired.”

“You got me over a barrel.”

It was true, there was nothing Ghita could say to force Jeannie. But Jeannie said: “Come on, it’s not that way.”

Ghita did not soften. “Yes, it is that way. I’m asking you to destroy that list.”

“I can’t.”

“Then there’s nothing more to say.” Ghita went to the door.

“Don’t leave like this,” Jeannie said. “We’ve been friends for too long.”

Ghita went.

“Shit,” Jeannie said. “Shit.”

The street door slammed.

Did I just lose one of my oldest friends? Jeannie thought.

Ghita had let her down. Jeannie understood the reasons: there was a lot of pressure on a young woman trying to make a career. All the same, it was Jeannie who was under attack, not Ghita. Ghita’s friendship had not survived the test of a crisis.

Jeannie wondered if other friends would go the same way.

Feeling miserable, she took a quick shower and began to throw on her clothes. Then she made herself stop and think. She was going into battle: she had better dress for it. She took off her black jeans and red T-shirt and started again. She washed and blow-dried her hair. She made up her face carefully: foundation, powder, mascara, and lipstick. She dressed in a black suit with a dove gray blouse, sheer stockings, and patent-leather pumps. She changed her nose ring for a plain stud.

She studied herself in a full-length mirror. She felt dangerous and she looked formidable. “Kill, Jeannie, kill,” she murmured. Then she went out.