the Third Twin (1996)

It was an even more shocking thought: Mom and Dad might not be his parents. “Or my twin could have been adopted.”

“Yes.”

“Or both, like Benny and Arnold.”

“Or both,” she repeated solemnly. She was gazing intently at him with those dark eyes. Despite the turmoil in his mind he could not help thinking how lovely she was. He wanted her to stare at him like this forever.

She said: “In my experience, even if a subject doesn’t know he or she is a twin, they normally know they were adopted. Even so, I should have guessed you might be different.”

Steve said painfully: “I just can’t believe Mom and Dad would have kept adoption a secret from me. It’s not their style.”

“Tell me about your parents.”

He knew she was making him talk to help him work through the shock, but that was okay. He collected his thoughts. “Mom’s kind of exceptional. You’ve heard of her, her name’s Lorraine Logan.”

“The lonelyhearts columnist?”

“Right. Syndicated in four hundred newspapers, author of six best-sellers about women’s health. Rich and famous, and she deserves it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She really cares about the people who write to her. She answers thousands of letters. You know, they basically want her to wave a magic wand—make their unwanted pregnancies vanish, get their kids off drugs, turn their abusive men into kindly and supportive husbands. She always gives them the information they need and tells them it’s their decision what to do, trust your feelings and don’t let anyone bully you. It’s a good philosophy.”

“And your father?”

“Dad’s pretty ordinary, I guess. He’s in the military, works at the Pentagon, he’s a colonel. He does public relations, writes speeches for generals, that kind of thing.”

“A disciplinarian?”

Steve smiled. “He has a highly developed sense of duty. But he’s not a violent man. He saw some action in Asia, before I was born, but he never brought it home.”

“Did you require discipline?”

Steve laughed. “I was the naughtiest boy in class, all through school. Constantly in trouble.”

“What for?”

“Breaking the rules. Running in the hallway. Wearing red socks. Chewing gum in class. Kissing Wendy Prasker behind the biology shelf in the school library when I was thirteen.”

“Why?”

“Because she was so pretty.”

She laughed again. “I meant, why did you break all the other rules?”

He shook his head. “I just couldn’t be obedient. I did what I wanted to do. The rules seemed stupid, and I got bored. They would have thrown me out of school, but I always got good grades, and I was usually captain of one sports team or another: football, basketball, baseball, track. I don’t understand myself. Am I a weirdo?”

“Everybody’s weird in their own way.”

“I guess so. Why d’you wear the nose ring?”

She raised her dark eyebrows, as if to say “I ask the questions around here,” but she answered him just the same. “I went through a punk phase when I was about fourteen: green hair, ripped stockings, everything. The pierced nostril was part of that.”

“It would close up and heal over if you let it.”

“I know. I guess I keep it because I feel that total respectability is deadly dull.”

Steve smiled. My God, I like this woman, he thought, even if she is too old for me. Then his mind switched back to what she had told him. “What makes you so sure I have a twin?”

“I’ve developed a computer program that searches medical records and other databases for pairs. Identical twins have similar brain waves, electrocardiograms, fingerprint ridge counts, and teeth. I scanned a large database of dental x-rays held by a medical insurance company, and found someone whose teeth measurements and arch forms are the same as yours.”

“It doesn’t sound conclusive.”

“Maybe not, although he even has cavities in the same places you do.”

“So who is he?”

“His name is Dennis Pinker.”

“Where is he now?”

“Richmond, Virginia.”

“Have you met him?”

“I’m going to Richmond to see him tomorrow. I’ll do many of the same tests on him, and take a blood sample so we can compare his DNA with yours. Then we’ll know for sure.”

Steve frowned. “Do you have a particular area that you’re interested in, within the field of genetics?”

“Yes. My specialty is criminality and whether it’s inherited.”

Steve nodded. “I get it. What did he do?”

“Pardon me?”

“What did Dennis Pinker do?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re going to visit him, instead of asking him to come here, so obviously he’s incarcerated.”

She colored faintly, as if she had been caught out in a deception. With her cheeks flushed she looked sexier than ever. “Yes, you’re right,” she said.

“What’s he in jail for?”

She hesitated. “Murder.”

“Jesus!” He looked away from her, trying to take it in. “Not only do I have an identical twin brother, but he’s a murderer! Jesus Christ!”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve handled this badly. You’re the first subject like this I’ve ever studied.”

“Boy. I came here hoping to learn something about myself, but I’ve learned more than I wanted to know.” Jeannie did not know, and never would know, that he had almost killed a boy called Tip Hendricks.