The Third Twin by Ken Follett Read Free Book Online

more urgent need for another woman to stay with her and hold her hand and reassure her. Probably the last thing she wanted was to be left alone with a macho man with a gun. As she jumped into her car Jeannie felt she had screwed up. “Jesus, what a day,” she said as she tore out of the parking lot.
    She lived not far from the campus. Her apartment was the upper story of a small row house. Jeannie double-parked and ran inside.
    She washed her hands and face hurriedly, then threw on some clean clothes. She thought for a moment about which of her clothes would fit Lisa’s short, rounded figure. She pulled out an oversize polo shirt and a pair of sweat pants with an elastic waistband. Underwear was more difficult. She found a baggy pair of man’s boxer shorts that might do, but none of her bras would fit. Lisa would have to go without. She added deck shoes, stuffed everything into a duffel, and ran out again.
    As she drove to the hospital her mood changed. Since the fire broke out she had been focused on what she had to do: now she began to feel enraged. Lisa was a happy, garrulous woman, but the shock and horror of what had happened had turned her into a zombie, frightened to get into a police car on her own.
    Driving along a shopping street, Jeannie started to look for the guy in the red cap, imagining that if she saw him she would swing the car up on the sidewalk and run him down. But in fact she would not recognize him. He must have taken off the bandanna and probably the hat too. What else had he been wearing? It shocked her to realize she could hardly remember. Some kind of T-shirt, she thought, with blue jeans or maybe shorts. Anyway, he might have changed his clothes by now, as she had.
    In fact, it could be any tall white man on the street: that pizza delivery boy in the red coat; the bald guy walking to church with his wife, hymnbooks under their arms; the handsome bearded man carrying a guitar case; even the cop talking to a bum outside the liquor store. There was nothing Jeannie could do with her rage, and she gripped the steering wheel tighter until her knuckles turned white.
    Santa Teresa was a big suburban hospital near the northern city limits. Jeannie left her car in the parking lot and found the emergency room. Lisa was already in bed, wearing a hospital gown and staring into space. A TV set with the sound off was showing the Emmy Awards ceremony: hundreds of Hollywood celebrities in evening dress drinking champagne and congratulating one another. McHenty sat beside the bed with his notebook on his knee.
    Jeannie put down the duffel. “Here are your clothes. What’s happening?”
    Lisa remained expressionless and silent. She was still in shock, Jeannie figured. She was suppressing her feelings, fighting to stay in control. But at some point she had to show her rage. There would be an explosion sooner or later.
    McHenty said: “I have to take down the basic details of the case, miss—would you excuse us for a few more minutes?”
    “Oh, sure,” Jeannie said apologetically. Then she caught a look from Lisa and hesitated. A few minutes ago she had been cursing herself for leaving Lisa alone with a man. Now she was about to do it again. “On the other hand,” she said, “maybe Lisa would prefer me to stay.” Her instinct was confirmed when Lisa gave a barely perceptible nod. Jeannie sat on the bed and took Lisa’s hand.
    McHenty looked irritated but he did not argue. “I was asking Miss Hoxton about how she tried to resist the assault,” he said. “Did you scream, Lisa?”
    “Once, when he threw me on the floor,” she said in a low voice. “Then he pulled the knife.”
    McHenty’s voice was matter-of-fact, and he looked down at his notebook as he spoke. “Did you try to fight him off?”
    She shook her head. “I was afraid he would cut me.”
    “So you really didn’t put up any resistance after that first scream?”
    She shook her head and began to cry. Jeannie squeezed her hand. She wanted