“Sure, be my guest.”
She looked for her best black suit and remembered she had thrown it in the trash yesterday. “Damn fool,” she muttered to herself. She could probably retrieve it, but it would be creased and stained. She had a long-line electric blue jacket; she could wear that with a white T-shirt and black pants. It was a bit too bright, but it would serve.
She sat at her mirror and did her makeup. Steve came out of the bathroom, looking handsomely formal in the shirt and tie. “There are some cinnamon buns in the freezer,” she said. “You could defrost them in the microwave if you’re hungry.”
“Great,” he said. “You want something?”
“I’m too tense to eat. I could drink another cup of coffee, though.”
He brought the coffee while she was finishing her makeup. She drank it quickly and put on her clothes. When she went into the living room, he was sitting at the kitchen counter. “Did you find the buns?”
“Sure.”
“What happened to them?”
“You said you weren’t hungry, so I ate them all.”
“All four?”
“Uh … in fact there were two packets.”
“You ate
He looked embarrassed. “I get hungry.”
She laughed. “Let’s go.”
As she turned away he grabbed her arm. “One minute.”
“What?”
“Jeannie, it’s fun being friends and I really like just hanging out with you, you know, but you have to understand this isn’t all I want.”
“I do know that.”
“I’m falling in love with you.”
She looked into his eyes. He was very sincere. “I’m getting kind of attached to you, too,” she said lightly.
“I want to make love to you, and I want it so bad it hurts.”
I could listen to this kind of talk all day, she thought. “Listen,” she said, “if you fuck like you eat, I’m yours.”
His face fell, and she realized she had said the wrong thing.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make a joke of it.”
He gave a “never mind” shrug.
She took his hand. “Listen. First we’re going to save me. Then we’re going to save you. Then we’ll have some fun.” He squeezed her hand. “Okay.”
They went outside. “Let’s drive together,” she said. “I’ll bring you back to your car later.”
They got into her Mercedes. The car radio came on as she started the engine. Easing into the traffic on 41st Street she heard the news announcer mention Genetico, and she turned up the volume. “Senator Jim Proust, a former director of the CIA, is expected to confirm today he will seek the Republican nomination in next year’s presidential election. His campaign promise: ten percent income tax, paid for by the abolition of welfare. Campaign finance will not be a problem, commentators say, as he stands to make sixty million dollars from an agreed takeover of his medical research company Genetico. In sports, the Philadelphia Phillies—”
Jeannie switched off the radio. “What do you think of that?”
Steve shook his head in dismay. “The stakes keep getting higher,” he said. “If we break the true story of Genetico, and the takeover bid is canceled, Jim Proust won’t be able to payfor a presidential campaign. And Proust is a serious bad guy: a spook, ex-CIA, against gun control, everything. You’re standing in the way of some dangerous people, Jeannie.”
She gritted her teeth. “That makes them all the more worth fighting against. I was raised on welfare, Steve. If Proust becomes president, girls like me will always be hairdressers.”
39
THERE WAS A SMALL DEMONSTRATION OUTSIDE HILLSIDE Hall, the administrative office building of Jones Falls University. Thirty or forty students, mostly women, stood in a cluster in front of the steps. It was a quiet, disciplined protest. Getting closer, Steve read a banner:
It seemed like a good omen to him. “They’re supporting you,” he said to Jeannie.
She looked closer, and a flush of pleasure spread across her face. “So they are. My God, someone loves me after all.”
Another placard read:
A cheer went up when they spotted Jeannie. She went over to them, smiling. Steve followed, proud of her. Not every professor would get such spontaneous support from students. She shook hands with the men and kissed the women. Steve noticed a pretty blond woman staring at him.
Jeannie hugged an older woman in the crowd. “Sophie!” she said. “What can I say?”
“Good luck in there,” the woman said.
Jeannie detached herself from the crowd, beaming, and they walked toward the building. He said: “Well,
“I can’t tell you how much that means to me,” she said, “That older woman is Sophie Chapple, a professor in the psychology department. I thought she hated me. I can’t believe she’s standing up for me.”
“Who was the pretty girl at the front?”
Jeannie gave him a curious look. “You don’t recognize her?”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen her before, but she couldn’t take her eyes off me.” Then he guessed. “Oh, my God, it must be the victim.”
“Lisa Hoxton.”
“No wonder she stared.” He could not help glancing back. She was a pretty, lively-looking girl, small and rather plump. His double had attacked her and thrown her to the floor and forced her to have sex. A small knot of disgust twisted inside Steve. She was just an ordinary young woman, and now she had a nightmare memory that would haunt her all her life.
The administrative building was a grand old house. Jeannie led him across the marbled hall and through a door marked Old Dining Room into a gloomy chamber in the baronial style: high ceiling, narrow Gothic windows, and thick-legged oak furniture. A long table stood in front of a carved stone fireplace.
Four men and a middle-aged woman sat along one side of the table. Steve recognized the bald man in the middle as Jeannie’s tennis opponent, Jack Budgen. This was the committee, he presumed: the group that held Jeannie’s fate in its hands. He took a deep breath.
Leaning over the table, he shook Jack Budgen’s hand and said: “Good morning, Dr. Budgen. I’m Steven Logan. Wespoke yesterday.” Some instinct took over and he found himself exuding a relaxed confidence that was the opposite of what he felt. He shook hands with each of the committee members, and they told him their names.
Two more men sat on the near side of the table, at the far end. The little guy in the navy vested suit was
