the Third Twin (1996)

according to the note she had left in careful, childish handwriting. He put it in the oven and poured a small glass of Springbank scotch. As he took the first sip, the phone rang.

It was his ex-wife, Vivvie. “The Wall Street Journal says you’re going to be rich,” she said.

He pictured her, a slender blonde of sixty years, sitting on the terrace of her California house, watching the sun go down over the Pacific Ocean. “I suppose you want to come back to me.”

“I thought about it, Berry. I thought about it very seriously for at least ten seconds. Then I realized a hundred and eighty million dollars wasn’t enough.”

That made him laugh.

“Seriously, Berry, I’m pleased for you.”

He knew she was sincere. She had plenty of money of her own. After leaving him, she had gone into the real estate business in Santa Barbara and had done well. “Thank you.”

“What are you going to do with the money? Leave it to the boy?”

Their son was studying to be a certified public accountant. “He won’t need it, he’ll make a fortune as an accountant. I might give some of the money to Jim Proust. He’s going to run for president.”

“What’ll you get in return? Do you want to be the U.S. ambassador in Paris?”

“No, but I’d consider surgeon general.”

“Hey, Berry, you’re serious about this. But I guess you shouldn’t say too much on the phone.”

“True.”

“I gotta go, my date just rang the doorbell. See you sooner, Montezuma.” It was an old family joke.

He gave her the response. “In a flash, succotash.” He cradled the phone.

He found it a little depressing that Vivvie was going out for the evening with a date—he had no idea who it might be—while he was sitting at home alone with his scotch. Apart from the death of his father, Vivvie’s leaving him was the great sadness of Berrington’s life. He did not blame her for going; he had been hopelessly unfaithful. But he had loved her, and he still missed her, thirteen years after the divorce. The fact that he was at fault only made him sadder. Joshing with her on the phone reminded him of how much fun they had had together in the good times.

He turned on the TV and watched Prime Time Live while his dinner was warming. The kitchen filled with the fragrance of the herbs Marianne used. She was a great cook. Perhaps it was because Martinique had been a French colony.

Just as he was taking the casserole out of the oven, the phone rang again. This time it was Preston Barck. He sounded shaken. “I just heard from Dick Minsky in Philadelphia,” he said. “Jeannie Ferrami has made an appointment to go to the Aventine Clinic tomorrow.”

Berrington sat down heavily. “Christ on a pony,” he said. “How the hell did she get on to the clinic?”

“I don’t know. Dick wasn’t there, the night manager took the call. But apparently she said some of her research subjects had treatment years ago and she wanted to check their medical records. Promised to fax over her releases and said she’d be there at two P.M. Thank God Dick happened to call in about something else and the night manager mentioned it.”

Dick Minsky had been one of the first people Genetico had hired, back in the seventies. He had been the mailroom boy then; now he was general manager of the clinics. He had never been a member of the inner circle— only Jim, Preston, and Berrington could ever belong to that club—but he knew that the company’s past held secrets. Discretion was automatic with him.

“What did you tell Dick to do?”

“Cancel the appointment, of course. If she shows up anyway, turn her away. Tell her she can’t see the records.” Berrington shook his head. “Not good enough.”

“Why?”

“It will just make her more curious. She’ll try to find some other way to get at the files.”

“Like how?”

Berrington sighed. Preston could be unimaginative. “Well, if I were her, I’d call Landsmann, get Michael Madigan’s secretary on the phone, and say he ought to look at the Aventine Clinic’s records from twenty-three years ago before he closes the takeover deal. That would get him asking questions, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, what do you suggest?” Preston said tetchily.

“I think we’re going to have to shred all the record cards from the seventies.”

There was a moment of silence. “Berry, those records are unique. Scientifically, they’re priceless—”

“You think I don’t know that?” Berrington snapped.

“There must be another way.”

Berrington sighed. He felt as bad as Preston did about it. He had fondly imagined that one day, many years in the future, someone would write the story of their pioneering experiments, and their boldness and scientific brilliance would be revealed to the world. It broke his heart to see the historical evidence wiped out in this guilty and underhand way. But it was inevitable now. “While the records exist, they’re a threat to us. They have to be destroyed. And it had better be done right away.”

“What’ll we tell the staff?”

“Shit, I don’t know, Preston, make something up, for Christ’s sake. New corporate document management strategy. So long as they start shredding first thing in the morning I don’t care what you tell them.”

“I guess you’re right. Okay, I’ll get back to Dick right away. Will you call Jim and bring him up-to-date?”

“Sure.”

“Bye.”

Berrington dialed Jim Proust’s home number. His wife, a wispy woman with a downtrodden air, answered the phone and put Jim on. “I’m in bed, Berry, what the hell is it now?”

The three of them were getting very snappy with one another.

Berrington told Jim what Preston had reported and the action they had decided on.

“Good move,” Jim said. “But it’s not enough. There are other ways this Ferrami woman could come at us.”

Berrington felt a spasm of irritation. Nothing was ever enough for Jim. No matter what you proposed, Jim would always want tougher action, more extreme measures. Then he suppressed his annoyance. Jim was making sense this time, he reflected. Jeannie had proved to be a real bloodhound, unwavering in her pursuit of the scent. One setback would not make her give up. “I agree,” he said to Jim. “And Steve Logan is out of jail, I heard earlier today, so she’s not entirely alone. We have to deal with her long term.”

“She has to be scared off.”

“Jim, for Christ’s sake—”

“I know this brings out the wimp in you, Berry, but it has to be done.”

“Forget it.”

“Look—”

“I have a better idea, Jim, if you’ll listen for a minute.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“I’m going to have her fired.”

Jim thought about it for a while. “I don’t know—will that do it?”

“Sure. Look, she imagines she’s stumbled on a biological anomaly. It’s the kind of thing that could make a young scientist’s career. She has no idea of what’s underneath all this; she believes the university is just afraid of bad publicity. If she loses her job, she’ll have no facilities to pursue her investigation, and no reason to stick to it. Besides, she’ll be too busy looking for another job. I happen to know she needs money.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

Berrington was suspicious. Jim was agreeing too readily. “You’re not planning to do something on your own, are you?” he said.

Jim evaded the question. “Can you do that, can you get her fired?”

“Sure.”

“But you told me Tuesday that it’s a university, not the fucking army.”

“That’s true, you can’t just yell at people and they do what you told them. But I’ve been in the academic world for most of the last forty years. I know how to work the machinery. When it’s really necessary, I can get rid of