Surprised, Steve shook his head.

"By the way, I'm Detective Brian Allaston." He lit a cigarette. "I really don't know why I'm telling you this, but there is a way you can make it better for yourself."

Steve frowned, curious. What was coming now?

Detective Allaston got up, walked around the table, and sat on its edge, with one foot on the floor, intimately close to Steve. He leaned forward and spoke in a softer voice. "Let me lay it out for you. Rape is v.a.g.i.n.al intercourse, using force or the threat of force, against the will or without the consent of the woman. For it to be first-degree rape, there has to be an aggravating factor such as kidnapping, disfigurement, or rape by two or more persons. The penalties for second-degree rape are lower. Now, if you can persuade me that what you did was only second degree, you could do yourself a great big favor."

Steve said nothing.

"Do you want to tell me how it happened?"

At last Steve spoke. "Shut the f.u.c.k up," he said.

Allaston moved very fast. He came off the table, grabbed Steve by the front of his shirt, lifted him out of the chair, and slammed him against the cinder-block wall. Steve's head jerked back and hit the wall with a painful bang.

He froze, clenching his fists at his sides. Don't do it, he said to himself, don't fight back. It was hard. Detective Allaston was overweight and out of condition, and Steve knew he could lay the b.a.s.t.a.r.d out in no time. But he had to control himself. All he had to hold on to was his innocence. If he beat up a cop, no matter how he had been provoked, he would be guilty of a crime. And then he might as well give up. He would lose heart if he did not have that sense of righteous indignation to buoy him up. So he stood there, rigid, his teeth clenched, while Allaston pulled him off the wall and slammed him back twice, three times, four times.

"Don't ever speak to me like that again, you punk," Allaston said.

Steve felt his rage ebb away. Allaston was not even hurting him. This was theater, he realized. Allaston was acting a part and doing it badly. He was the tough guy and Mish was the nice one. In a while she would come in and offer him coffee and pretend to be his friend. But she would have the same aim as Allaston: to persuade Steve to confess to the rape of a woman he had never met called Lisa Margaret Hoxton. "Let's cut the c.r.a.p, Detective," he said. "I know you're a tough son of a b.i.t.c.h with hairs growing out of your nostrils, and you know that if we were somewhere else and you didn't have that gun on your belt I could beat the s.h.i.t out of you, so let's stop trying to prove ourselves."

Allaston looked surprised. No doubt he had expected Steve to be too scared to speak. He let go of Steve's shirtfront and walked to the door.

"They told me you were a smart-a.s.s," he said. "Well, let me tell you what I'm going to do for your education. You're going back to the cells for a while, but this time you'll have company. You see, all the forty-one empty cells down there are somehow out of commission, so you're going to have to share with a guy called Rupert Butcher, known as Porky. You think you're a big motherf.u.c.ker, but he's bigger. He's coming down from a three-day crack party, so he has a headache. Last night, around the time you were setting fire to the gymnasium and sticking your nasty d.i.c.k into poor Lisa Hoxton, Porky Butcher was stabbing his lover to death with a gardening fork. You should enjoy one another. Let's go."

Steve was scared. All his courage ebbed away as if a plug had been pulled, and he felt defenseless and defeated. The detective had humiliated him without really threatening to hurt him badly; but a night with a psychopath was seriously dangerous. This Butcher character had already committed a murder: if he were capable of rational thought he would know that he had little to lose by committing another.

"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, "f.u.c.k you."

The surprised look came back into Allaston's face. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he said. "We'll see if you're so G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 J 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. 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 s.e.x 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 pa.s.s 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, G.o.d," he said aloud as he listened to it ring out.

A young man answered. "h.e.l.lo?"

"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 G.o.dd.a.m.n 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.

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15.

THE CITY OF R 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 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 c.o.c.ktail?" c.o.c.ktail?"

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 study study us. It's because our son is a murderer." us. It's because our son is a murderer."

She called him "our son," Jeannie noted; but that did not mean a lot. He might still have been adopted. She was desperate to ask about Dennis Pinker's parentage. If the Pinkers admitted that he was adopted, that would solve half the puzzle. But she had to be careful. It was a delicate question. If she asked too abruptly, they were more likely to lie. She forced herself to wait for the right moment.

She was also on tenterhooks about Dennis's appearance. Was he Steven Logan's double or not? She looked eagerly at the photographs in cheap frames around the little living room. All had been taken years ago. Little Dennis was pictured in a stroller, riding a tricycle, dressed for baseball, and shaking hands with Mickey Mouse in Disneyland. There were no pictures of him as an adult. No doubt the parents wanted to remember the innocent boy before he became a convicted murderer. In consequence, Jeannie learned nothing from the photographs. That fair-haired twelve-year-old might now look exactly like Steven Logan, but he could equally well have grown up ugly and stunted and dark.

Both Charlotte and the Major had filled out several questionnaires in advance, and now they had to be interviewed for about an hour each. Lisa took the Major into the kitchen and Jeannie interviewed Charlotte.

Jeannie had trouble concentrating on the routine questions. Her mind kept wandering to Steve in jail. She still found it impossible to believe he could be a rapist. It was not just because that would spoil her theory. She liked the guy: he was smart and engaging, and he seemed kind. He also had a vulnerable side: his bafflement and distress at the news that he had a psychopathic twin had made her want to put her arms around him and comfort him.

When she asked Charlotte if any other family members had ever been in trouble with the law, Charlotte turned her imperious gaze on Jeannie and drawled: "The men in my family have always been terribly violent." She breathed in through flared nostrils. "I'm a Marlowe by birth, and we are a hot-blooded family."

That suggested that Dennis was not adopted or that his adoption was not acknowledged. Jeannie concealed her disappointment. Was Charlotte going to deny that Dennis could be a twin?

The question had to be asked. Jeannie said: "Mrs. Pinker, is there any chance Dennis might have a twin?"

"No."

The response was flat: no indignation, no bl.u.s.ter, just factual.

"You're sure."

Charlotte laughed. "My dear, that's one thing a mother could hardly make a mistake about!"

"He definitely isn't adopted."

"I carried that boy in my womb, may G.o.d forgive me."

Jeannie's spirits fell. Charlotte Pinker would lie more readily than Lorraine Logan, Jeannie judged, but all the same it was strange and worrying that they should both deny their sons were twins.

She felt pessimistic as they took their leave of the Pinkers. She had a feeling that when she met Dennis she would find he looked nothing like Steve.

Their rented Ford Aspire was parked outside. It was a hot day. Jeannie was wearing a sleeveless dress with a jacket over it for authority. The Ford's air conditioner groaned and pumped out tepid air. She took off her panty hose and hung her jacket on the rear-seat coat hook.

Jeannie drove. As they pulled onto the highway, heading for the prison, Lisa said: "It really bothers me that you think I picked the wrong guy."