“Wait a minute,” Steve said shakily.
Allaston turned back slowly. “Well?”
“If I confess, I get a cell to myself.”
Relief showed in the detective’s expression. “Sure,” he said. His voice had suddenly become friendly.
The change of tone caused Steve to burn with resentment. “But if I don’t, I get murdered by Porky Butcher.”
Allaston spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
Steve felt his fear turn to hatred. “In that case, Detective,” he said, “fuck you.”
The surprised look came back into Allaston’s face. “You bastard,” he said. “We’ll see if you’re so goddamn feisty in another couple of hours. Come on.”
He took Steve to the elevator and escorted him to the cell block. Spike was still there. “Put this creep in with Porky,” Allaston told him.
Spike raised his eyebrows. “That bad, huh?”
“Yeah. And by the way—Steve here has nightmares.”
“That so?”
“If you hear him cry out—don’t worry about it, he’s just dreaming.”
“I get you,” Spike said.
Allaston left and Spike took Steve to his cell.
Porky was lying on the bunk. He was about Steve’s height but a lot heavier. He looked like a bodybuilder who had been in a car wreck: his bloodstained T-shirt was stretched tight over bulging muscles. He lay on his back, head toward the rear of the cell, feet hanging over the end of the bunk. He opened his eyes when Spike unlocked the gate and let Steve in.
It crashed shut and Spike locked it.
Porky opened his eyes and stared at Steve.
Steve stared back for a moment.
“Sweet dreams,” Spike said.
Porky closed his eyes again.
Steve sat on the floor, with his back to the wall, and watched Porky sleep.
14
BERRINGTON JONES DROVE HOME SLOWLY. HE FELT DISAPPOINTED and relieved at the same time. Like a dieter who wrestles with temptation all the way to the ice-cream parlor, then finds it closed, he had been saved from something he knew he ought not to do.
He was no closer to solving the problem of Jeannie’s project and what it might uncover, however. Maybe he should have spent more time questioning her and less having fun. He frowned in perplexity as he parked outside the house and went in.
The place was quiet: Marianne, the housekeeper, must have gone to bed. He went into the den and checked his answering machine. There was one message.
“Professor, this is Sergeant Delaware from the Sex Crimes Unit calling on Monday night. I appreciate your cooperation today.” Berrington shrugged. He had done little more than confirm that Lisa Hoxton worked at Nut House. She went on: “As you are Ms. Hoxton’s employer and the rape took place on campus, I thought I should tell you we have arrested a man this evening. In fact, he was a subject at your laboratory today. His name is Steven Logan.”
“Jesus!” Berrington burst out.
“The victim picked him out at the lineup, so I’m sure the DNA test will confirm that he is the man. Please pass this information on to any others at the college whom you think appropriate. Thank you.”
“No!” Berrington said. He sat down heavily. “No,” he said more quietly.
Then he began to weep.
After a moment he got up, still crying, and closed the study door, for fear the maid might come in. Then he returned to his desk and buried his head in his hands.
He stayed that way for some time.
When at last the tears dried up, he lifted the phone and called a number he knew by heart.
“Not the answering machine, please, God,” he said aloud as he listened to it ring out.
A young man answered. “Hello?”
“This is me,” Berrington said.
“Hey, how are you?”
“Desolate.”
“Oh.” The tone was guilty.
If Berrington had any doubts, that note in the voice swept them away. “You know what I’m calling about, don’t you.”
“Tell me.”
“Don’t play games with me, please. I’m talking about Sunday night.”
The young man sighed. “Okay.”
“You goddamn fool. You went to the campus, didn’t you? You—” He realized he should not say too much on the phone. “You did it again.”
“I’m sorry—”
“You’re sorry!”
“How did you know?”
“At first I didn’t suspect you—I thought you’d left town. Then they arrested someone who looks just like you.”
“Wow! That means I’m—”
“You’re off the hook.”
“Wow. What a break. Listen …”
“What?”
“You wouldn’t say anything. To the police, or anything.”
“No, I won’t say a word,” Berrington said with a heavy heart. “You can rely on me.”
TUESDAY
15
THE CITY OF RICHMOND HAD AN AIR OF LOST GRANDEUR, AND Jeannie thought Dennis Pinker’s parents fit right in. Charlotte Pinker, a freckled redhead in a whispering silk dress, had the aura of a great Virginia lady even though she lived in a frame house on a narrow lot. She said she was fifty-five, but Jeannie guessed she was probably nearer sixty. Her husband, whom she referred to as “the Major,” was about the same age, but he had the careless grooming and unhurried air of a man who had long retired. He winked roguishly at Jeannie and Lisa and said: “Would you girls like a
His wife had a refined southern accent, and she spoke a little too loudly, as if she were perpetually addressing a meeting. “For mercy’s sake, Major, it’s ten o’clock in the morning!”
He shrugged. “Just trying to get the party off to a good start.”
“This is no party—these ladies are here to
