The Third Twin - Ken Follett [191]
Next to the VIP room was a door marked “Regency Room.” Farther along the corridor, waiting for the elevator, was one of his doubles.
Who was it? The man was rubbing his wrists, as if they were sore; and he had a red mark across both cheeks that looked as if it might have been made by a tight gag. This was Harvey, who had spent the night tied up.
He looked up and caught Steve’s eye.
They stared at one another for a long moment. It was like looking into a mirror. Steve tried to see beyond Harvey’s appearance, read his face and look into his heart, and see the cancer that made him evil. But he could not. All he saw was a man just like himself, who had walked down the same road and taken a different turning.
He tore his eyes away from Harvey and went into the Regency Room.
It was pandemonium. Jeannie and Lisa were in the center of a crowd of cameramen. He saw one—no two, three clones with them. He pushed through to her. “Jeannie!” he said.
She looked up at him, her face blank.
“It’s Steve!” he said.
Mish Delaware was beside her.
Steve said to Mish: “If you’re looking for Harvey he’s outside, waiting for the elevator.”
Mish said to Jeannie: “Can you tell which one this is?”
“Sure.” Jeannie looked at him and said: “I play a little tennis myself.”
He grinned. “If you only play a little tennis, you’re probably not in my league.”
“Thank God!” she said. She threw her arms around him. He smiled and bent to her face, and they kissed.
The cameras swung around to them, a sea of flashguns glitered, and that was the picture on the front page of newspapers all over the world the following morning.
NEXT JUNE
63
FOREST LAWNS WAS LIKE A GENTEEL OLD-FASHIONED HOTEL. It had flowered wallpaper, and china knickknacks in glass cases, and occasional tables with spindly legs. It smelled of potpourri, not disinfectant, and the staff called Jeannie’s mother “Mrs. Ferrami,” not “Maria” or “dear.” Mom had a little suite, with a small parlor where visitors could sit and have tea.
“This is my husband, Mom,” Jeannie said, and Steve gave his most charming smile and shook her hand.
“What a nice-looking boy,” Mom said. “What work do you do, Steve?”
“I’m studying law.”
“Law. That’s a good career.”
She had flashes of rationality interspersed with longer periods of confusion.
Jeannie said: “Daddy came to our wedding.”
“How is your father?”
“He’s good. He’s too old to rob people anymore, so he protects them instead. He started his own security firm. It’s doing well.”
“I haven’t seen him for twenty years.”
“Yes, you have, Mom. He visits you. But you forget.” Jeannie changed the subject. “You look well.” Her mother was wearing a pretty cotton shirtwaist with a candy stripe. Her hair was permed and her nails were manicured. “Do you like it here? It’s better than Bella Vista, don’t you think?”
Mom began to look worried. “How are we going to pay for it, Jeannie? I don’t have any money.”
“I have a new job, Mom. I can afford it.”
“What job is that?”
Jeannie knew she would not understand, but she told her anyway. “I’m director of genetics research for a big company called Landsmann.” Michael Madigan had offered her the job after someone explained her search engine to him. The salary was three times what she had been making at Jones Falls. Even more exciting was the work, which was at the leading edge of genetics research.
“That’s nice,” Mom said. “Oh! Before I forget—there was a picture of you in the newspaper. I saved it.” She delved into her handbag and brought out a folded clipping. She straightened it out and gave it to Jeannie.
Jeannie had seen it before, but she studied it as if it were new to her. It showed her at the congressional inquiry into the experiments at the Aventine Clinic. The inquiry had not yet produced its report, but there was not much doubt what it would say. The questioning of Jim Proust, televised nationwide, had been a public humiliation such as had never been seen before. Proust had blustered and shouted and lied, and with every word his guilt had become plainer.