The Third Twin - Ken Follett [122]
“I guess so. David Creane failed to deliver, so I guess he still owes me a favor. I’ll call him.”
“Tomorrow morning would be a good time. The hearing is at ten, she’ll be there for a couple of hours.”
“Gotcha. I’ll get it done. But what if she keeps it in her goddamn handbag? What do we do then?”
“I don’t know. Good night, Jim.”
“Night.”
After hanging up, Berrington sat there for a while, looking at the narrow room enlivened by Jeannie’s bright, bold colors. If things went wrong tomorrow, she could be back at this desk by lunchtime, with her FBI list, charging ahead with her investigation, all set to ruin three good men.
It must not happen, he thought desperately; it must not happen.
FRIDAY
38
JEANNIE WOKE UP IN HER COMPACT WHITE-WALLED LIVING room, on her black couch, in Steve’s arms, wearing only her fuchsia pink terrycloth bathrobe.
How did I get here?
They had spent half the night rehearsing for today’s hearing. Jeannie’s heart lurched: her fate was to be decided this morning.
But how come I’m lying in his lap?
Around three o’clock she had yawned and closed her eyes for a moment.
And then … ?
She must have fallen asleep.
At some point he had gone into the bedroom and taken the blue-and-red-striped quilt off the bed and tucked it around her, for she was snug beneath it.
But Steve could not be responsible for the way she was lying, with her head on his thigh and her arm around his waist. She must have done that herself, in her sleep. It was a bit embarrassing; her face was very close to his crotch. She wondered what he thought of her. Her behavior had been very off the wall. Undressing in front of him, then falling asleep on him; she was behaving as you would with a longtime lover.
Well, I’ve got an excuse for acting weird: I’ve had a weird week.
She had been ill treated by Patrolman McHenty, robbed by her father, accused by the New York Times, threatened with a knife by Dennis Pinker, fired by the college, and attacked in her car. She felt damaged.
Her face throbbed gently where she had been punched yesterday, but the injuries were not merely physical. The attack had bruised her psyche too. When she recalled the fight in the car, her anger returned and she wanted to get the man by the throat. Even when she was not remembering, she felt a low background hum of unhappiness, as if her life were somehow of less value because of the attack.
It was surprising she could trust any man; astonishing that she could fall asleep on a couch with one who looked exactly like her attackers. But now she could be even more sure of Steve. Neither of the others could have spent the night like this, alone with a girl, without forcing himself on her.
She frowned. Steve had done something in the night, she recalled vaguely; something nice. Yes: she had a dreamy memory of big hands rhythmically caressing her hair, it seemed for a long time, while she dozed, as comfortable as a stroked cat.
She smiled and stirred, and he spoke immediately. “Are you awake?”
She yawned and stretched. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you. Are you okay?”
“The blood supply to my left leg was cut off at about five A.M., but once I got used to that I was fine.”
She sat upright so that she could see him better. His clothes were creased, his hair was mussed, and he had a growth of fair stubble, but he looked good enough to eat. “Did you sleep?”
He shook his head. “I was enjoying myself too much, watching you.”
“Don’t say I snore.”
“You don’t snore. You dribble a little, that’s all.” He dabbed at a damp spot on his pants.
“Oh, gross!” She stood up. The bright blue clock on the wall caught her eye: it was eight-thirty. “We don’t have much time,” she said in alarm. “The hearing starts at ten.”
“You shower while I make coffee,” Steve said generously.
She stared at him. He was unreal. “Did you come from Santa Claus?”
He laughed. “According to your theory, I come from a testtube.” Then his face went solemn again. “What the hell, who knows.”
Her mood darkened along with his. She went into the bedroom, dropped her clothes on the floor,