worse by telling the press.”
“You strike me as an uncompromising person,” he said.
She nodded. “There’s
He showed her
She looked at the first paragraph. “A hundred and eighty million dollars, wow.” She read on while chewing a slice of pizza. When she finished the article she shook her head. “Your theory is interesting, but I don’t buy it.”
“Why not?”
“It was Maurice Obeli who seemed to be against me, not Berrington. Although Berrington can be sneaky, they say. Anyway, I’m not that important. I represent such a tiny fraction of the research Genetico sponsors. Even if my work really did invade people’s privacy, that wouldn’t be enough of a scandal to threaten a multimillion-dollar takeover.”
Steve wiped his fingers on a paper napkin and picked up a framed photograph of a woman with a baby. The woman looked a bit like Jeannie, with straight hair. “Your sister?” he guessed.
“Yes. Patty. She has three kids now—all boys.”
“I don’t have any brothers or sisters,” he said. Then he remembered. “Unless you count Dennis Pinker.” Jeannie’s face changed, and he said: “You’re looking at me like a specimen.”
“I’m sorry. Want to try the ice cream?”
“You bet.”
She put the carton on the table and got out two spoons. That pleased him. Eating out of the same container was one step closer to kissing. She ate with relish. He wondered if she made love with the same kind of greedy enthusiasm.
He swallowed a spoonful of Rainforest Crunch and said: “I’m so glad you believe in me. The cops sure don’t.”
“If you’re a rapist, my whole theory falls to pieces.”
“Even so, not many women would have let me in tonight. Especially believing I have the same genes as Dennis Pinker.”
“I hesitated,” she said. “But you proved me right.”
“How?”
She gestured to indicate the remains of their dinner. “If Dennis Pinker is attracted to a woman, he pulls a knife and orders her to take off her panties. You bring pizza.”
Steve laughed.
“It may sound funny,” Jeannie said, “but it’s a world of difference.”
“There’s something you ought to know about me,” Steve said. “A secret.”
She put down her spoon. “What?”
“I almost killed someone once.”
“How?”
He told her the story of the fight with Tip Hendricks. “That’s why I’m so bothered by this stuff about my origins,” he said. “I can’t tell you how disturbing it is to be told that Mom and Dad may not be my parents. What if my real father is a killer?”
Jeannie shook her head. “You were in a schoolboy fight that got out of hand. That doesn’t make you a psychopath. And what about the other guy? Tip?”
“Someone else killed him a couple of years later. By then he was dealing dope. He got into an argument with his supplier, and the guy shot him through the head.”
“He’s the psychopath, I figure,” Jeannie said. “That’s what happens to them. They can’t stay out of trouble. A big strong kid like you might clash with the law once, but you survive the incident and go on to lead a normal life. Whereas Dennis will be in and out of jail until someone kills him.”
“How old are you, Jeannie?”
“You didn’t like me calling you a big strong kid.”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“I’m twenty-nine. It’s a big difference.”
“Do I seem like a kid to you?”
“Listen, I don’t know, a man of thirty probably wouldn’t drive here from Washington just to bring me pizza. It was kind of impulsive.”
“Are you sorry I did it?”
“No.” She touched his hand. “I’m real glad.”
He still did not know where he was with her. But she had cried on his shoulder. You don’t use a kid for that, he thought.
“When will you know about my genes?” he said.
She looked at her watch. “The blotting is probably done. Lisa will make the film in the morning.”
“You mean the test is completed?”
“Just about.”
“Can’t we look at the results now? I can’t wait to find out if I have the same DNA as Dennis Pinker.”
“I guess we could,” Jeannie said. “I’m pretty curious myself.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
25
BERRINGTON JONES HAD A PLASTIC CARD THAT WOULD OPEN any door in Nut House.
No one else knew. Even the other full professors fondly imagined their offices were private. They knew the cleaners had master keys. So did the campus security guards. But it never occurred to faculty that it could not be very difficult to get hold of a key that was given even to cleaners.
All the same, Berrington had never used his master key. Snooping was undignified: not his style. Pete Watlingson probably had photos of naked boys in his desk drawer, Ted Ransome undoubtedly stashed a little marijuana somewhere, Sophie Chapple might keep a vibrator for those long, lonely afternoons, but Berrington did not want to know about it. The master key was only for emergencies.
This was an emergency.
The university had ordered Jeannie to stop using her computer search program, and they had announced to the world that it had been discontinued, but how could he be sure it was true? He could not see the electronic messages fly along the phone lines from one terminal to another. Throughout the day the thought had nagged him that she might already be searching another database. And there was no telling what she might find.
So he had returned to his office and now sat at his desk, as the warm dusk gathered over the red brick of the campus buildings, tapping a plastic card against his computer mouse and getting ready to do something that went against all his instincts.
His dignity was precious. He had developed it early. As the smallest boy in the class, without a father to tell him how to deal with bullies, his mother too worried about making ends meet to concern herself with his happiness, he had slowly created an air of superiority, an aloofness that protected him. At Harvard he had furtively studied a classmate from a rich old-money family, taking in the details of his leather belts and linen handkerchiefs, his tweed suits and cashmere scarves; learning how he unfolded his napkin and held chairs for ladies; marveling at the mixture of ease and deference with which he treated the professors, the superficial charm and underlying coldness of his relations with his social inferiors. By the time Berrington began work on his master’s degree he was widely assumed to be a Brahmin himself.
And the cloak of dignity was difficult to take off. Some professors could remove their jackets and join in a game of touch football with a group of undergraduates, but not Berrington. The students never told him jokes or invited him to their parties, but neither did they act rudely to him or talk during his lectures or question his grades.
In a sense his whole life since the creation of Genetico had been a deception, but he had carried it off with
