the Third Twin (1996)

“And he thinks I’m Harvey. What the hell do I do?”

Jeannie spread her hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “Improvise,” she said.

“Gee, thanks.” Steve put the phone to his ear. “Uh, yeah, this is Steve,” he said.

“What’s going on? You’ve been there hours!”

“I guess so.…”

“Have you found out what Jeannie’s planning to do?”

“Uh … yes, I have.”

“Then get back here and tell us!”

“Okay.”

“You’re not trapped in any way, are you?”

“No.”

“I suppose you’ve been fucking her.”

“You could say that.”

“Get your goddamn pants on and come home! We’re all in bad trouble!”

“Okay.”

“Now, when you hang up, you’re going to say it was someone who works for your parents’ lawyer, calling to say you’re needed in D.C. as soon as possible. That’s your cover story, and it gives you a reason to hurry. Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

Berrington hung up and Steve did likewise.

Steve’s shoulders slumped with relief. “I think I fooled him.”

Jeannie said: “What did he say?”

“It was very interesting. It seems Harvey was sent here to find out what your intentions are. They’re worried about what you might do with the knowledge you have.”

“They? Who?”

“Berrington and someone called Uncle Preston.”

“Preston Barck, president of Genetico. So why did they call?”

“Impatience. Berrington got fed up with waiting. I guess he and his cronies are waiting to find out so they can figure out how to respond. He told me to pretend I have to go to Washington to see the lawyer, then get back to his house as fast as I can.”

Jeannie looked worried. “This is very bad. When Harvey doesn’t show up, Berrington will know something’s wrong. The Genetico people will be forewarned. There’s no telling what they might do: move the press conference to another location, step up security so we can’t get in, even cancel the event altogether and sign the papers in a lawyer’s office.”

Steve frowned, staring at the floor. He had an idea, but he hesitated to propose it. Finally he said: “Then Harvey must go home.”

Jeannie shook her head. “He’s been lying there on the floor listening to us. He’ll tell them everything.”

“Not if I go in his place.”

Jeannie and Lisa stared at him, aghast.

He had not worked it out; he was thinking aloud. “I’ll go to Berrington’s home and pretend to be Harvey. I’ll reassure them.”

“Steve, it’s so hazardous. You don’t know anything about their life. You wouldn’t even know where the bathroom was.”

“If Harvey could fool you, I guess I could fool Berrington.” Steve tried to sound more confident than he felt.

“Harvey didn’t fool me. I found him out.”

“He fooled you for a while.”

“Less than an hour. You’d have to stay there longer.”

“Not much. Harvey normally returns to Philadelphia on Sunday evening, we know that. I’ll be back here by midnight.”

“But Berrington is Harvey’s father. It’s impossible.”

He knew she was right. “Do you have a better idea?”

Jeannie thought for a long moment, then she said: “No.”

59

STEVE PUT ON HARVEY’S BLUE CORDUROY PANTS AND LIGHT blue sweater and drove Harvey’s Datsun to Roland Park. It was dark by the time he reached Berrington’s house. He parked behind a silver Lincoln Town Car and sat for a moment, summoning his courage.

He had to get this right. If he was found out, Jeannie was finished. But he had nothing to go on, no information to work with. He would have to be alert to every hint, sensitive to expectations, relaxed about errors. He wished he were an actor.

What mood is Harvey in? he asked himself. He’s been summoned rather peremptorily by his father. He might have been enjoying himself with Jeannie. I think he’s in a bad mood.

He sighed. He could not postpone the dread moment any longer. He got out of the car and went to the front door.

There were several keys on Harvey’s key ring. He peered at the lock on Berrington’s front door. He thought he could make out the word “Yale.” He looked for a Yale key. Before he could find one, Berrington opened the door. “What are you standing there for?” he said irritably. “Get in here.”

Steve stepped inside.

“Go in the den,” Berrington said.

Where the fuck is the den? Steve fought down a wave of panic. The house was a standard suburban ranch-style split-level built in the seventies. To his left, through an arch, he could see a living room with formal furniture and no one in it. Straight ahead was a passage with several doors off it which, he guessed, led to bedrooms. On his right were two closed doors. One of them was probably the den—but which?

“Go in the den,” Berrington repeated, as if he might not have heard the first time.

Steve picked a door at random.

He had chosen the wrong door. This was a bathroom.

Berrington looked at him with an irritated frown.

Steve hesitated for a moment, then remembered he was supposed to be in a bad temper. “I can take a piss first, can’t I?” he snapped. Without waiting for an answer he went in and closed the door.

It was a guest bathroom, with just a toilet and a hand basin. He leaned on the edge of the basin and looked in the mirror. “You have to be crazy,” he said to his reflection.

He flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and went out.

He could hear male voices from farther inside the house. He opened the door next to the bathroom: this was the den. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and took a swift look around. There was a desk, a wood file cabinet, lots of bookshelves, a TV, and some couches. On the desk was a photograph of an attractive blond woman of about forty, wearing clothes that looked about twenty years out-of-date, holding a baby. Berrington’s ex-wife? My “mother”? He opened the desk drawers one after the other, glancing inside, then he looked in the file cabinet. There was a bottle of Springbank scotch and some crystal glasses in the bottom drawer, almost as if they were meant to be concealed. Perhaps it was a whim of Berrington’s. As he closed the drawer, the room door opened and Berrington came in, followed by two men. Steve recognized Senator Proust, whose large bald head and big nose were familiar from the TV news. He presumed the quiet, black-haired man was “Uncle” Preston Barck, the president of Genetico.

He remembered to be bad tempered. “You needn’t have dragged me back here in such a goddamn hurry.”

Berrington adopted a conciliatory tone. “We just finished supper,” he said. “You want something? Marianne can make up a tray.”