Incinerate. Tomorrow was garbage day, the can out at the curb waiting for the pickup. First thing tomorrow the truck would come by, dump the can, and haul the load out to the county incinerator. That was it. Throw this stuff in the garbage where it belonged!
She got a brown grocery bag from the kitchen, dumped the journals and the letter inside, then tied it with string. Wrapping her coat around her, she hurried outside to the curb. But as she lifted the lid of the garbage can, Carol hesitated.
What if the wrapper got torn and one of the sanit men just happened to see the journals and read them? As remote as it was, the possibility chilled her.
And beyond that, this just didn't feel right. There were Jim's. As much as they were damaging him, he had a right to them.
What if she simply told him that she had thrown them away? Wouldn't that be just as good?
But she'd have to have a damn good hiding place to make that plan work. Where… ?
The crawl space! It was perfect! Nothing down there but pipes, footings, cinder blocks, and dirt. No one had been in there since the plumber they'd hired two years ago to fix a pipe. And Jim would never search there because he wouldn't be searching—he'd believe they'd gone up in smoke at the county incinerator.
Carol was excited now as she hurried around to the side of the house to the access door. Thank God that Monroe had such a high water table that crawl spaces were the rule rather than cellars. She squatted and reached between a pair of rhododendrons, searching for the handle on the hinged wooden board over the crawl space opening. The opening was small, about a yard wide and only half that in height. She grabbed the handle, lifted the board, quickly dropped the bundle inside, then eased the door back into place.
There, she thought, straightening and brushing off her hands. No one will read those now except the bugs.
The beauty part of this plan was that after Jim had blown his top and fumed over the loss of the records, he could get on with the task of accepting his origin and putting it behind him where it belonged. The journals would no longer be staring him in the face every day, gnawing at him, focusing his anxieties and insecurities. And when he had finally stabilized again—and Carol knew he would with her support—and put it all in proper perspective, maybe then, in a couple of years, she would return the journals to him. By that time they would be old news, and he would be better able to deal with them.
She hurried back to the front door to get out of the cold. Tomorrow was going to be rough after she told him her lie, but once the storm was over, it would be a new beginning.
Everything was going to be all right now.
2
Gerry Becker watched Carol disappear into the house.
What the hell was that all about?
First she comes out with a package, very furtively, then she goes around to the side of the house, kneels in the bushes, then comes out without the package.
Crazy.
But something crazy might be just what Gerry was waiting for. Stevens's wife was obviously hiding something. From whom? Her husband? The IRS? Who?
Gerry waited a few more minutes and saw the lights go out. He smiled. He'd give those two in the house a chance to settle into a nice deep sleep, then he'd go looking. He was good at finding things.
It wouldn't be long now.
Thirteen
Wednesday, March 6
1
Jim awoke stiff, sore, and nauseated, feeling like Charlie Watts had been using the back of his head for a bass drum. He hadn't slept a wink Monday night. He'd tried—he'd curled up on the couch under a blanket and hoped he'd doze off so he could wake up later and find that all this had been a bad dream. But sleep hadn't come. And so he'd lain there in the dark, tense and rigid, his mind racing and his stomach twisted into a tight, heavy knot until dawn had crept in and Carol had called. Only exhaustion and a few shots of JD had let him sleep last night. But he didn't feel the least bit rested.
This was no good. He was going to have to get a grip. He loathed self-pity and could sense that he was turning into some sort of woeful basket case.
But he had a right to be a basket case, dammit! He'd gone searching for the identity of his parents and discovered that he didn't have any. Worse, his own identity was in question now.
I'm not really me—I'm a piece of somebody else!
The knowledge was a weight in his chest, pressing down on his stomach. Why? Why me? Why couldn't he have had a mother and a father like everybody else? Was that asking for so much?
This was all so damn unreal!
He squinted in the bright morning sun pouring through the window. The clock read a little after eight. Almost reflexively he reached for the journals.
They weren't there!
He could have sworn he'd left them right here by his side on the couch. He jumped up and lifted the cushions. He looked under the couch, even unfolded the hidden mattress. Gone!
His heart thudding in his throat, Jim hurried down the short hall and across the living room toward the master bedroom. The smell of fresh coffee stopped him.
"Carol?"
"In here, Jim."
What was Carol doing home? She wasn't off today. Then it struck him: She must have taken the journals! She must have read them! No!
He rushed into the kitchen.
"Carol, the books! Where are they?"
She put down her coffee cup and slipped her arms around his neck. Her long, sandy hair trailed over the shoulders of her robe. She looked beautiful.
"I love you, Jim."
Normally this would have stirred his desire, but there was room in his mind for only one thing.
"The journals—did you take them?"
She nodded. "And I read them."
Jim felt as if the floor were giving way beneath him.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Carol. I didn't know, really I didn't. I never would have married you if I'd known."
"Known what? That you were cloned from Hanley?"
Her eyes were so soft, so loving, her voice gentle and soothing. How could she be so calm?
"Yes! I swear I didn't know!"
"What difference does it make, Jim?"
"What difference? How can you say that? I'm a freak! A scientific experiment!"
"No you're not. You're Jim Stevens. The man I married. The man I love."
"No! I'm a piece of Roderick Hanley!"
"You're Jim Stevens—Hanley's twin."
"I wish! He took a piece of himself and stuck it in that whore and grew me out like a goddamn cutting from one of our forsythia bushes. You know—snip it off, stick it in the ground, water it enough, and you've got a new bush."
"Don't talk like—"
"Or maybe I'm not a cutting. I'm more like a tumor. That's what I am—a fucking tumor!"
"Stop it!" she cried, showing strong emotion for the first time. "I won't have you talking about yourself like that!"
"Why not? Everybody else will!"
"No they won't. I'm the only other person who knows, and I don't feel that way."
"But you're different."
"Well, I'm it. Because nobody else will ever know unless you tell them. And even then, they won't believe you."
She said it with a tone of such finality that Jim was afraid to ask the next question.
"The journals! Where are they?"
"Where they belong—in the garbage."
"Oh, no!"
He spun and headed for the front door.
"Don't bother," he heard Carol say behind him. "The truck came by at six-thirty."
Suddenly he was angry. More than angry. He was enraged.