Ericsons in the United States, thirty-three listings.
Lisa’s second P. Ericson was bad tempered and abusive, and she was white-faced as she hung up the phone, but she drank a cup of coffee then carried on determinedly.
Each call was a small drama. Jeannie had to summon up the nerve to pretend to be a cop. It was agony wondering if the voice answering the phone would be the man who had said, “Now give me a hand job, otherwise I’ll beat the shit out of you.” Then there was the strain of maintaining her impersonation of a police detective against the skepticism or rudeness of the people who answered the phone. And most calls ended in disappointment.
As Jeannie was hanging up from her sixth fruitless call, she heard Lisa say: “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Our information must be out-of-date. Please forgive this intrusion, Mrs. Ericson. Good-bye.” She hung up, looking crushed. “He’s the one all right,” she said solemnly. “But he died last winter. That was his mother. She burst into tears when I asked for him.”
She wondered momentarily what Per Ericson had been like. Was he a psychopath, like Dennis, or was he like Steve? “How did he die?”
“He was a ski champion, apparently, and he broke his neck trying something risky.”
A daredevil, without fear. “That sounds like our man.”
It had not occurred to Jeannie that not all eight might be alive. Now she realized that there must have been more than eight implants. Even nowadays, when the technique was well established, many implants failed to “take.” And it was also likely that some of the mothers had miscarried. Genetico might have experimented on fifteen or twenty women, or even more.
“It’s hard making these calls,” Lisa said.
“Do you want to take a break?”
“No.” Lisa shook herself. “We’re doing well. We’ve eliminated two of the five and it’s not yet three A.M.. Who’s next?”
“George Dassault.”
Jeannie was beginning to believe they would find the rapist, but they were not so lucky with the next name. There were only seven George Dassaults in the United States, but three of them did not answer their phones. None had any connection with either Baltimore or Philadelphia—one was in Buffalo, one in Sacramento, and one in Houston—but that did not prove anything. There was nothing they could do but move on. Lisa printed the list of phone numbers so they could try again later.
There was another snag. “I guess there’s no guarantee that the man we’re after is on the CD-ROM,” Jeannie said.
“That’s true. He might not have a phone. Or his number could be unlisted.”
“He could be fisted under a nickname, Spike Dassault or Flip Jones.”
Lisa giggled. “He could have become a rap singer and changed his name to Icey Creamo Creamy.”
“He could be a wrestler called Iron Billy.”
“He could be writing westerns under the name Buck Remington.”
“Or pornography as Heidi Whiplash.”
“Dick Swiftly.”
“Henrietta Pussy.”
Their laughter was abruptly cut off by the crash of breaking glass. Jeannie shot off her stool and darted into the stationery cupboard. She closed the door behind her and stood in the dark, listening.
She heard Lisa say nervously: “Who is it?”
“Security,” came a man’s voice. “Did you put that glass there?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
“So nobody could sneak up on me. I get nervous working here late.”
“Well, I ain’t gonna sweep it up. I ain’t a cleaner.”
“Okay, just leave it.”
“Are you on your own, miss?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll just look around.”
“Be my guest.”
Jeannie took hold of the door handle with both hands. If he tried to open it, she would prevent him.
She heard him walking around the lab. “What kind of work are you doing, anyway?” His voice was very close.
Lisa was farther away. “I’d love to talk, but I just don’t have time, I’m really busy.”
“Okay, no problem.” His voice was right outside the door. “What’s in here?”
Jeannie grasped the handle firmly and pulled upward, ready to resist pressure.
“That’s where we keep the radioactive virus chromosomes,” Lisa said. “It’s probably quite safe, though, you can go in if it’s not locked.”
Jeannie suppressed a hysterical laugh. There was no such thing as a radioactive virus chromosome.
“I guess I’ll skip it,” the guard said. Jeannie was about to relax her grip on the door handle when she felt sudden pressure. She pulled upward with all her might. “It’s locked, anyway,” he said.
There was a pause. When next he spoke his voice was distant, and Jeannie relaxed. “If you get lonely, come on over to the guardhouse. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”
“Thanks,” Lisa said.
Jeannie’s tension began to ease, but she cautiously stayed where she was, waiting for the all clear. After a couple of minutes Lisa opened the door. “He’s left the building,” she said.
They went back to the phones.
Murray Claud was another unusual name, and they tracked him down quickly. It was Jeannie who made the call. Murray Claud Sr. told her, in a voice full of bitterness and bewilderment, that his son had been jailed in Athens three years ago, after a knife fight in a taverna, and would not be released until January at the earliest. “That boy could have been anything,” he said. “Astronaut. Nobel Prize winner. Movie star. President of the United States. He has brains, charm, and good looks. And he threw it away. Just threw it all away.”
She understood the father’s pain. He thought he was responsible. She was sorely tempted to tell him the truth, but she was unprepared, and anyway there was no time. She promised herself she would call him again, one day, and give him what consolation she could. Then she hung up.
They left Harvey Jones until last because they knew he would be the hardest.
Jeannie was daunted to find there were almost a million Joneses in America, and H. was a common initial. His middle name was John. He had been born at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, D.C., so Jeannie and Lisa began by calling every Harvey Jones, every H. J. Jones, and every H. Jones in the Washington phone book. They did not find one who had been born approximately twenty-two years ago at Walter Reed; but, worse, they accumulated a long list of maybes: people who did not answer their phones.
Once again Jeannie began to doubt whether this would work. They had three unresolved George Dassaults and now twenty or thirty H. Joneses. Her approach was theoretically sound, but if people did not answer their phones she could not question them. Her eyes were getting bleary and she was feeling jumpy from too much coffee and no sleep.
At four A.M.. she and Lisa began on the Philadelphia Joneses.
At four-thirty Jeannie found him.
She thought it was going to be another maybe. The phone rang four times, then there was the characteristic pause and click of an answering machine. But the voice on the machine was eerily familiar. “You’ve reached Harvey Jones’s place,” the message said, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. It was like listening to Steve: the pitch of the voice, the diction, and the phrasing were all Steve’s. “I can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave a message after the long tone.”
Jeannie hung up and checked the address. It was an apartment on Spruce Street, in University City, not far from the Aventine Clinic. She noticed her hands were shaking. It was because she wanted to get him by the
