the Third Twin (1996)

Now that she had the disk in her hand she could not wait to read the information on it. Desperate though she was to get out of Nut House, she was tempted to look at the file right here and now. She did not have a computer at home; Daddy had sold it. To read the disk she would have to borrow a PC. That would take time and explanations.

She decided to take a chance.

She switched on the computer on her desk and waited for it to boot up.

“What are you doing?” Daddy said.

“I want to read the file.”

“Can’t you do that at home?”

“I don’t have a computer at home, Daddy. It was stolen.”

He missed the irony. “Hurry up, then.” He went to the window and looked out.

The screen flickered and she clicked on WP. She slid the floppy into the disk drive and switched on her printer.

The alarms went off all at once.

Jeannie thought her heart had stopped. The noise was deafening. “What happened?” she yelled.

Her father was white with fear. “That damn emitter must have failed, or maybe someone took it off the door,” he yelled. “We’re finished, Jeannie, run!”

She wanted to snatch the disk out of the computer and bolt, but she forced herself to think coolly. If she were caught now and the disk taken from her, she would have lost everything. She had to look at the list while she could. She grabbed her father’s arm. “Just a few more seconds!”

He glanced out of the window. “Damn, that looks like a security man!”

“I just have to print this! Wait for me!”

He was shaking. “I can’t, Jeannie, I can’t! I’m sorry!” He snatched up his briefcase and ran.

Jeannie felt pity for him, but she could not stop now. She retrieved the A-drive directory, highlighted the FBI file, and clicked on Print.

Nothing happened. Her printer was still warming up. She cursed.

She went to the window. Two security guards were entering the front of the building.

She closed her office door.

She stared at her inkjet printer. “Come on, come on.”

At last it ticked and whirred and sucked up a sheet from the paper tray.

She sprung the floppy out of the disk drive and slipped it into the pocket of her electric blue jacket.

The printer regurgitated four sheets of paper then stopped.

Heart pounding, Jeannie snatched up the pages and scanned the lines of print.

There were thirty or forty pairs of names. Most were male, but this was not surprising: almost all crimes were committed by men. In some cases the address was a prison. The list was exactly what she had hoped for. But now she wanted something special. She looked for either “Steven Logan” or “Dennis Pinker.”

Both were there.

And they were linked with a third: “Wayne Stattner.”

“Yes!” Jeannie shouted exultantly.

There was an address in New York City and a 212 phone number.

She stared at the name. Wayne Stattner. This was the man who had raped Lisa right here in the gym and attacked Jeannie in Philadelphia. “You bastard,” she whispered vengefully. “We’re going to get you.”

First she had to escape with the information. She stuffed the papers into her pocket, switched out the lights, and opened the door.

She heard voices in the corridor, raised against the noise of the alarm which was still wailing. She was too late. Carefully, she closed the door again. Her legs felt weak, and she leaned on the door, listening.

She heard a man’s voice shout: “I’m sure there was a light on in one of these.”

Another voice replied: “We better check each one.”

Jeannie glanced around the little room in the dim light from the street lamps outside. There was nowhere to hide.

She opened the door a crack. She could not see or hear anything. She poked her head out. At the far end of the corridor light streamed out of an open door. She waited and watched. The guards came out, killed the light, closed the door, and went into the next room, which was the laboratory. It would take them a minute or two to search that. Could she slip past the door unseen and make it to the stairwell?

Jeannie stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind her with a shaky hand.

She walked along the corridor. By an effort of will she restrained herself from breaking into a run.

She passed the lab door. She could not resist the temptation to glance inside. Both guards had their backs to her; one was looking inside a stationery closet and the other was staring curiously at a row of DNA test films on a light box. They did not see her.

Almost there.

She walked on to the end of the corridor and opened the swing door.

As she was about to step through, a voice called out: “Hey! You! Stop!”

Every nerve strained to make a run for it, but she controlled herself. She let the door swing closed, turned, and smiled.

Two guards ran along the corridor toward her. They were both men in their late fifties, probably retired cops.

Her throat was tight and she had trouble breathing. “Good evening,” she said. “How can I help you gentlemen?” The sound of the alarm covered the tremor in her voice.

“An alarm has gone off in the building,” said one.