The Third Twin - Ken Follett [114]
There was a busy street, a hospital with people standing outside, a line of taxicabs, and a sidewalk stall selling Chinese food. “Yes!” Jeannie shouted triumphantly. She stamped on the brake. Steve jerked the wheel and she pulled it back. Fish-tailing, the car screeched to a halt in the middle of the road. A dozen cabdrivers at the food stand turned to look.
Steve opened his door, got out, and ran.
“Thank God,” Jeannie breathed.
A moment later he had disappeared.
Jeannie sat there, panting. He was gone. The nightmare was over.
One of the drivers came over and put his head inside the passenger door. Hastily Jeannie rearranged her clothing. “Are you okay, lady?” he said.
“I guess so,” she replied breathlessly.
“What the heck was that all about?”
She shook her head. “I sure wish I knew,” she said.
36
STEVE SAT ON A LOW WALL NEAR JEANNIE’S HOUSE, WAITING for her. It was hot, but he took advantage of the shade of a big maple tree. She lived in an old working-class neighborhood of traditional row houses. Teenagers from a nearby school were walking home, laughing and quarreling and eating candy. It was not long since he had been like that: eight or nine years.
But now he was worried and desperate. This afternoon his lawyer had talked to Sergeant Delaware of the Sex Crimes Unit in Baltimore. She had told him she had the results of the DNA test. The DNA from traces of sperm in Lisa Hoxton’s vagina exactly matched the DNA in Steve’s blood.
He was devastated. He had been sure the DNA test would end this agony.
He could tell that his lawyer no longer believed in his innocence. Mom and Dad did, but they were baffled; they both knew enough to realize that DNA testing was extremely reliable.
In his worst moments he wondered if he had some kind of split personality. Maybe there was another Steve who took over and raped women and gave him his body back afterward. That way he would not know what he had done. He recalled, ominously, that there were a few seconds of his fight with Tip Hendricks that he had never been able to bring to mind. And he had been ready to drive his fingers into Porky Butcher’s brain. Was it his alter ego who did these things? He did not really believe it. There had to be another explanation.
The ray of hope was the mystery surrounding him and Dennis Pinker. Dennis had the same DNA as Steve. Something was wrong here. And the only person who could figure it out was Jeannie Ferrami.
The kids disappeared into their homes, and the sun dipped behind the row of houses on the other side of the street. Toward six o’clock the red Mercedes eased into a parking slot fifty yards away. Jeannie got out. At first she did not see Steve. She opened the trunk and took out a large black plastic garbage bag. Then she locked the car and came along the sidewalk toward him. She was dressed formally, in a black skirted suit, but she looked disheveled, and there was a weariness in her walk that touched his heart. He wondered what had happened to give her this battle-worn look. She was still gorgeous, though, and he watched her with longing in his heart.
As she got near him he stood up, smiling, and took a step toward her.
She glanced at him, met his eye, and recognized him. A look of horror came over her face.
She opened her mouth and screamed.
He stopped dead. Aghast, he said: “Jeannie, what is it?”
“Get away from me!” she yelled. “Don’t you touch me! I’m calling the cops right now!”
Nonplussed, Steve held his hands up in a defensive gesture. “Sure, sure, anything you say. I’m not touching you, okay? What the hell has gotten into you?”
A