She held his head and pulled his face to her and kissed him again, this time with her mouth open wide. She leaned backward on the couch until he was half lying on her, his weight crushing her chest. Eventually she pushed him away, panting, and said: “Bedroom.”
She untangled herself from him and went into the bedroom ahead of him. She pulled her sweater over her head and threw it on the floor. He came into the room and closed the door behind him with his heel. Seeing her undressing, he took off his T-shirt with one swift movement.
They all do that, she thought; they all close the door with their heel.
He pulled off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, and took off his blue jeans. His body was perfect, broad shoulders and a muscular chest and narrow hips in white Jockey shorts.
But which one is he?
He moved toward her and she took two steps back.
The man on the phone said: “He could visit you again.”
He frowned. “What’s the matter?”
She was suddenly scared. “I can’t do this,” she said.
He took a deep breath and blew hard. “Wow,” he said. He looked away. “Wow.”
She crossed her arms on her chest, covering her breasts. “I don’t know who you are.”
Comprehension dawned. “Oh, my God.” He sat on the bed with his back to her, and his big shoulders slumped dispiritedly. But it could have been an act. “You think I’m the one you met in Philadelphia.”
“I thought he was Steve.”
“But why would he pretend to be me?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“He wouldn’t just do it in the hope of a sly fuck,” he said. “My doubles have peculiar ways of getting their kicks, but this isn’t one of them. If he wanted to fuck you he’d pull a knife on you, or rip your stockings, or set fire to the building, wouldn’t he?”
“I got a phone call,” Jeannie said shakily. “Anonymous. He said: ‘The one you met in Philadelphia was supposed to kill you. He got carried away and messed up. But he could visit you again.’ That’s why you have to leave, now.” She snatched up her sweater from off the floor and pulled it on hastily. It did not make her feel any safer.
There was sympathy in his gaze. “Poor Jeannie,” he said. “The bastards have scared you good. I’m sorry.” He stood up and pulled on his jeans.
Suddenly she felt sure she was wrong. The Philadelphia clone, the rapist, would never start dressing again in this situation. He would throw her on the bed and tear off her clothes and try to take her by force. This man was different. This was Steve. She felt an almost irresistible desire to fling her arms around him and make love to him. “Steve …”
He smiled. “That’s me.”
But was this the aim of his act? When he had won her confidence, and they were naked in bed, and he was lying on top of her, would he change and reveal his true nature, the nature that loved to see women in fear and pain? She shuddered with dread.
It was no good. She averted her eyes. “You’d better go,” she said.
“You could question me,” he said.
“All right. Where did I first meet Steve?”
“At the tennis court.”
It was the right answer. “But both Steve and the rapist were at JFU that day.”
“Ask me something else.”
“How many cinnamon buns did Steve eat on Friday morning?”
He grinned. “Eight, I’m ashamed to say.”
She shook her head despairingly. “This place could be bugged. They’ve searched my office and downloaded my E-mail, they could be listening to us now. It’s no good. I don’t know Steve Logan that well, and what I do know, others might know too.”
“I guess you’re right,” he said, putting his T-shirt back on.
He sat on the bed and put on his shoes. She went into the living room, not wanting to stand in the bedroom and watch him dress. Was this a terrible mistake? Or was it the smartest move she had ever made? She felt a bereft ache in her loins; she had wanted so badly to make love to Steve. Yet the thought that she might have found herself in bed with someone like Wayne Stattner made her shaky with fear.
He came in, fully dressed. She looked into his eyes, searching for something there, some sign that would assuage her doubts, but she did not find it. I don’t know who you are, I just don’t know!
He read her mind. “It’s no use, I can tell. Trust is trust, and when it’s gone, it’s gone.” He let his resentment show for a moment. “What a downer, what a motherfucking downer.”
His anger scared her. She was strong, but he was stronger. She wanted him out of the apartment, and fast.
He sensed her urgency. “Okay, I’m leaving,” he said. He went to the door. “You realize he wouldn’t leave.” She nodded.
He said what she was thinking. “But until I really leave, you can’t be sure. And if I leave and come right back, that doesn’t count either. For you to know it’s me, I have to really go away.”
“Yes.” She was sure now that this was Steve, but her doubts would return unless he really went away.
“We need a secret code, so you know it’s me.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Okay.”
“Good-bye,” he said. “I won’t try to kiss you.”
He went down the stairs. “Call me,” he shouted.
She stood still, frozen to the spot, until she heard the slam of the street door.
She bit her lip. She felt like crying. She went to the kitchen counter and poured coffee into a mug. She raised the mug to her lips, but it slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor, where it smashed on the tiles. “Fuck,” she said.
Her legs went weak, and she slumped on the couch. She had felt in terrible danger. Now she knew the danger had been imaginary, but she still felt profoundly grateful that it had passed. Her body felt swollen with unfulfilled desire. She touched her crotch: her leggings were damp. “Soon,” she breathed. “Soon.” She thought about how it would be the next time they met, how she would embrace him and kiss him and apologize, and how tenderly he would forgive her; and as she envisioned it she touched herself with her fingertips, and after a few moments a spasm of pleasure went through her.
Then she slept for a while.
46
IT WAS THE HUMILIATION THAT GOT TO BERRINGTON.
He kept defeating Jeannie Ferrami, but he was never able to feel good about it. She had forced him to go sneaking around like a petty thief. He had surreptitiously leaked a story to a newspaper, crept into her office and searched her desk drawers, and now he was watching her house. But fear compelled him. His world seemed about to fall around him. He was desperate.
He would never have thought he would be doing this a few weeks from his sixtieth birthday: sitting in his car, parked at the curb, watching someone else’s front door like a grubby private eye. What would his mother think? She was still alive, a slim, well-dressed woman of eighty-four, living in a small town in Maine, writing witty letters to the local newspaper and determinedly hanging on to her post as chief flower arranger for the Episcopalian Church. She would shudder with shame to know what her son had been reduced to.
God forbid he should be seen by anyone he knew. He was careful not to meet the eyes of passersby. His car was unfortunately conspicuous. He thought of it as a discreetly elegant automobile, but there were not many silver Lincoln Town Cars parked along this street: aging Japanese compacts and lovingly preserved Pontiac Firebirds were the local favorites. Berrington himself was not the kind of person to fade into the background, with his distinctive gray hair. For a while he had held a street map open in front of him, resting on the steering wheel, for camouflage, but this was a friendly neighborhood, and two people had tapped on the window and offered to give him directions, so he had had to put the map away. He consoled himself with the thought that anyone who lived in such a low-rent area could not possibly be important.