Книга - Regina’s Song

Regina’s Song
David Eddings

Leigh Eddings


A brutal serial killer stalks the Seattle nights. Regina Greenleaf was one of the victims. Her beautiful twin sister, Renata, is deeply traumatized.Renata barely knows she’s alive. She talks only rarely, and then always in twin-speak, the special language she and Regina made up long before they’d learned to speak English.When there had been two of them, they used to swap names. At school, they’d swapped the ribbons in their hair that were the only way of telling them apart. They were so close to each other, they might as well have been one person.Mark, a college lecturer in English, is Renata's friend and her post-trauma protector. He’s the only person Renata recognizes and will talk to. She agrees to attend his classes, and with the help of Mark’s room-mates Renata seems to be coming to terms with her loss.But the number of murders in Seattle rises, and Mark has some dreadful suspicions. If he says anything, it’s guaranteed to send Renata back to the hospital. But if he doesn’t, there may be blood on his conscience…In Regina's Song, David and Leigh Eddings have written a tense, chilling story of a nightmare coming true.









Regina’s Song

David and Leigh Eddings












For Angela and Pat—

for providing theological and political advice

before they went back to Ireland.




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u9d23389b-ec23-5b2b-a744-c242108eb2fb)

Title Page (#uda54d19a-34ff-53d9-8829-909343af4710)

PRELUDE (#u40a4d492-9341-56a3-a75e-13f56008aaef)

FIRST MOVEMENT ADAGIO (#u2daabeb1-77a1-5d1a-ba2b-a55f646fef2e)

CHAPTER ONE (#u9c3cd381-8e70-56c2-8050-ce67718d2e7e)

CHAPTER TWO (#udb324312-4aca-51bf-9cc1-f92cf09f081b)

CHAPTER THREE (#u44c9d257-ce58-5df5-be2b-59bad28be84d)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u23c1f431-4720-54c2-af3c-02312a63ff05)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u47416f97-2a1f-531c-81e9-893b4f9fcc8a)

CHAPTER SIX (#ud8ea9ff8-ffeb-54a5-9ebf-58f1e24b66da)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#u4560bfdf-2b97-57ca-8ee0-00b8ac97c827)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#u57bf33df-becb-5ea4-8159-381e110d16d5)

CHAPTER NINE (#u5b9448f6-c8e3-5662-8f79-feb360cb1196)

CHAPTER TEN (#u8d97f947-af83-5db2-888c-a9fe0c107b67)

SECOND MOVEMENT DIES IRAE (#uf4bb8521-ee51-553c-9681-750791f8a66b)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ue9249d50-1679-5c27-9eb1-34b31e3be4e8)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#u59474ee8-045e-5952-9db0-0d80ceedfd0a)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#u154d959a-cecc-5413-a56a-57610c96f48a)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#u3fd83d31-89e1-5532-891a-97370f9e3100)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#u137a1432-ef9c-5d7f-b94d-67378cea880a)

THIRD MOVEMENT APPASSIONATA (#u1a31a3e4-7aba-5e58-bb52-4f0096af7cf2)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#u55d11697-0121-5805-9684-68751884ead2)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#u6829e853-40be-5cae-b26e-2b706134b3c3)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#ub9f33617-c16f-5c95-8974-8ef98cab641b)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#ua8592e79-abe1-5c5b-9007-1262e239f054)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#uacec75e8-fe8d-553d-b812-be18d4fa05df)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#u88e23539-19b0-529d-b3c2-f2a72621e0f4)

FOURTH MOVEMENT AGNUS DEI (#u4bd54f1b-dc6c-5dc3-8d3d-7aae5abb7026)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#u48ee07ec-c071-5830-9da6-cb019e6bd9eb)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#u4f70102e-b48f-5aab-987d-186529840d7d)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#u49a313aa-4520-5b3f-a6d7-9d2fe3bde91d)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#u58a1e8de-8894-5661-9303-2fbdf257521e)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#u753b232c-b885-5a52-b181-2bf29e6e7529)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#udf14385a-d9ae-5fb6-ac07-91b4f52ea1a2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#u25317b2e-7dda-5f7f-b111-00a75ef048db)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#u3a73788b-5a28-5713-a35e-5782f912a6f5)

CODA (#ua24ea1e5-31f2-57b5-bd5a-a285ba81650c)

By David Eddings (#u211d774c-6595-54f4-a7cb-cee0cac3e9b3)

Copyright (#ubf427d4c-daff-56aa-a1b9-171fc1b5c738)

About the Publisher (#ucad1881f-6b11-5d7b-8f62-24c41d52067f)




PRELUDE (#ulink_d78755a2-0acd-588c-86cf-b30fced050b0)

Andante


Les Greenleaf and my dad, Ben Austin, had served in the same outfit during the Vietnam War, and twenty-five years later they could spend whole afternoons swapping war stories. They both grew up in Everett, a town thirty miles north of Seattle. And they both worked at the same place, since my dad was a sawyer at Greenleaf Sash and Door, Inc.

Aside from that, they couldn’t have been much more opposite. Les Greenleaf was a Catholic, a Republican, and a member of the National Association of Manufacturers. My dad was a Methodist, a Democrat, and a member of the AFL-CIO. Les Greenleaf had investments, and Ben Austin lived from paycheck to paycheck. They were on opposite sides of just about any fence you could think of.

“Buddyship,” though, tends to jump over all kinds of fences. I guess that when people are shooting at you, you get attached to the guy who’s covering your butt.



Back during the late sixties, staying out of the army and the war in ‘Nam had been every young man’s major goal in life. Rich kids could get a student deferment if they were smart enough to get into college, but working-class kids had to take their chances.

Les and my dad both graduated from high school in 1967. My dad promptly married pretty Pauline Baker, his high-school sweetheart and went to work at Greenleaf Sash and Door.

Les Greenleaf enrolled in the University of Washington, joined a fraternity, and majored in parties. He flunked out at the end of his sophomore year.

My dad had evidently had a little spat with mom, and just to show her how independent he was, he enlisted in the army—something he might not have done if he’d been completely sober. He was, however, sober enough to sign on for only two years rather than the customary six.

As it turned out, Les Greenleaf was inducted on the same day, so they started out together. My mom had been pregnant—with me—during her little argument with dad, which might have explained why she’d been so grouchy.

Anyway, Ben and Les went off to war, and mom stayed home and sulked.

I was about a year and a half old when they got out of the army, and I was among the guests at the wedding of Mr. Lester Greenleaf and Miss Inga Wurzberger. I was the one who slept through the whole ceremony. Inga was obviously of German extraction—Bavarian, I think—and she’d been a sorority girl at U.W. while Les was concentrating on cutting classes. The wedding had taken place in a Catholic church, and I guess my dad had been a little uncomfortable about that—but buddyship prevailed.

Inga and my mom got along well together, and starting back when I was still a toddler, we often visited the Greenleafs in their fancy home in a posh district of Everett. Since I was absolutely adorable in those days, I was always the center of attention during those visits, and I thought that was sort of nice.

My time in the limelight came to an abrupt halt in 1977 when Inga blossomed and bore fruit—a pair of twin girls, Regina and Renata, who definitely outclassed me on the adorability front. As I remember, I was fairly sullen about the whole thing.

Regina and Renata were identical twins—so identical that not even Inga could tell them apart—and when they first started talking, it wasn’t English they were speaking. I’m told it’s not uncommon for twins to have a private language, but “twin-speak” is supposed to fade out before the pair get into kindergarten. Regina and Renata kept their private dialect fully operational all the way into high school.

There was a whacko social theory at that time to the effect that twins would grow up psychotic if they were dressed alike. Inga blithely ignored it and followed the ancient custom of putting the girls in identical dresses every morning, the sole difference being a red hair ribbon for Regina and a blue one for Renata. She carefully checked their little gold name bracelets every morning to be certain she wasn’t getting them mixed up. I think it was those hair ribbons that set the girls off on what the Greenleafs called the twin-game. Regina and Renata swapped ribbons three or four times a day, and as soon as they learned how to undo the clasps on their name bracelets, all hope of certainty went out the window.

Those two had all sorts of fun with that twin-game, but now when I think back, maybe they were trying to tell us something. The pretty little blond girls had no real sense of individual identity. I don’t think either one ever used the word “I.” It was always “we” with Regina and Renata. They’d even answer to either name.

That bugged their parents, but it didn’t particularly bother me. My solution to the “identification crisis” was to simply address them indiscriminately as Twinkie and to refer to them collectively as the Twinkie Twins. That made the girls a little grumpy right at first, but after a while it seemed to fit into their conception of themselves, and they stopped using their given names and began to address each other as either Twinkie or Twink—even when they were using their private language.

In a peculiar way, that got me included in their private group. Our families were close to begin with, and because I was seven years older than they were, the chubby, golden-haired twins looked upon me as a big brother. I had to tie their shoes, wipe their noses, and put the wheels back on their tricycles when they came off. Every time they broke something they’d assure each other that “Markie can fix it.” Every now and then, one of them would slip and say something to me in twin-speak, and they always seemed a little disappointed and even sad when I didn’t understand what they were saying.

As their official surrogate brother, I spent a lot of my childhood and early adolescence in the company of the Twinkie Twins, and I learned to ignore their cutesy-poo habit of whispering to each other, casting sly looks at me, and giggling. By the time I moved up into high-school—an event most adolescents view as something akin to a religious experience—I was more or less immune to their antics.



In May of my sophomore year, I turned sixteen and got my driver’s license. My dad firmly advised me that the family car was not available, but he promised to check at the union hall for job opportunities for young fellows in need of a summer job. I wasn’t too hopeful, but he came home with an evil sort of grin on his face. “You’ve got a job at a sawmill, Mark,” he told me.

“No kidding?” I was a little startled.

“Nope. You go to work on the Monday after school lets out.”

“What am I going to be doing?”

“Pulling chain.”

“What’s ‘pulling chain’?”

“You don’t really want to know.”

I found out why I wouldn’t after I’d joined the union and reported to work. I also found out why there were always job openings in sawmills when the job involves the green chain. Sawmills convert logs from the woods into planks. After a green hemlock log has spent six or eight weeks in the millpond soaking up salt water, it gets very heavy, and it’s so waterlogged that it sends out a spray when it goes through the saw. The planks come slithering out of the mill on a wide bed of rollers called the green chain. They’re rough, covered with splinters, and almost as heavy as iron. “Pulling chain” involves hauling those rough-sawed planks off the rollers and stacking them in piles. It’s a moderately un-fun job. More-modern sawmills have machines that do the sorting, pulling, and stacking, but the sawmill where I worked that summer hadn’t changed very much since the 1920s, so we did things the old-fashioned way. I didn’t like the job very much, but I really, really wanted my own car, so I stuck it out.

I’d been an indifferent student at best up until then, but after the summer of ‘86, my attitude changed. There might just be a doctoral dissertation in psychology there—The Motivational Impact of the Green Chain maybe. I became a much more serious student after that summer, let me tell you.

Pulling chain did earn me enough money to buy my own car, of course, and that’s very important to red-blooded sixteen-year-olds, since it’s widely known in that group that “You ain’t nothin’ if you ain’t got wheels.” The Twinkie Twins weren’t very impressed by my not-very-shiny black ‘74 Dodge, but I didn’t buy it to impress them. They were only third graders and by definition unworthy of my attention. They were blond, still chubby with the remnants of baby fat, and they were at the tomboy stage of development.

Time rushed on in the endless noon of my adolescence, and it seemed that before I’d turned around twice, graduation day was staring me in the face. The gloomy prospect of pulling chain loomed in front of me, but good old Les Greenleaf stepped in at that point. I’m sure there was a certain amount of collusion involved when right after my high-school graduation an opening “just happened” to show up at the door factory, and my dad presented me with my reactivated union card. The Monday after graduation I went to work at Greenleaf Sash and Door. I was now a worker. I even went to union meetings.

I think the highlight of my first year at the door factory came on the day when all the kids in Everett had to go back to school, but I didn’t. My delight lasted for almost a whole week. Then it gradually dawned on me that I actually missed going to school. That green-chain scare in the summer of my sophomore year had turned me into a semiserious student during my last two years at school, and now I didn’t know what to do with myself. The door factory only filled forty hours a week, and my dad had our television set permanently locked on the sports channels. I’ve always been fairly certain that the world won’t come to an end if the Seattle Seahawks don’t make it into the Super Bowl. I took to reading to fill up the empty hours, and by the summer of 1990, I’d plowed my way through a sizable chunk of the Everett Public Library.

Just for kicks, I took an evening course at the local community college in the autumn quarter of that year, and I aced it. I was a little surprised at how easy it’d been.

I took another course during the winter quarter, and that one was even easier.

I latched on to a steady girlfriend at the community college that winter, and we both skipped the spring quarter. We broke up that summer, though, and I started taking courses as a sort of hobby. I didn’t really have any kind of academic goal; you might just say I was majoring in everything.

Wouldn’t Everything 101 be an interesting course title?

That went on for a couple years, and by then I’d racked up a fairly impressive number of credit hours. My dad didn’t say anything about my snooping around the edges of the world of learning, but he was keeping track of my progress.

There was another strong odor of collusion about what happened in late November of 1992. We’d been invited to the Greenleafs’ for Thanksgiving dinner, and after we’d all eaten too much, my dad and the boss got involved in a probably well-rehearsed discussion of an ongoing problem at the door factory. There were only four saws, and orders were starting to back up because each saw could only cut so much door stock in eight hours. This meant that the boss had to pay a lot of overtime, which was great for the sawyers right at first, but after it got to be a habit, there was a lot of grumbling about ten- or twelve-hour days. The solution was fairly simple. It’s called swing shift. One sawyer would have to work from four in the afternoon until half past midnight. There’d now be five sawyers instead of four, and the boss wouldn’t have to buy a new saw or pay overtime.

Guess who got elected for swing shift. And guess who’d now have all kinds of free time during the normal daytime hours at Everett Community College. And guess who was coerced into taking a full course load. And guess who was the only one in the room who didn’t know this was coming.

You guessed ‘er, Chester.

I think the Twinkie Twins got more entertainment out of this elaborate scam than anybody else did. They were high-school freshmen now, but they’d reverted to whispering in twin-speak, giving me those sickeningly cute smirks, and giggling.

I carried a full course load in both the winter and spring quarters in 1993, and that satisfied the requirements for graduation. It’d taken me four years to reach the point that a full-time student achieves in two, but I was now an Associate in Arts and Sciences—with honors, no less. And I had a major in English, but with a lot of those “everything” courses that didn’t apply.

I went through the cap and gown ceremony with the Austins and Greenleafs in the audience, and after the ceremony we all went back to Greenleaf Manor for another of those “let’s steer Mark in the right direction” sessions at which I was usually outnumbered six to one.

Inga Greenleaf led the assault. “What in the world were you thinking of, Mark?” she demanded, waving a copy of my transcript at me. “Your grades are very good, but half the courses you took weren’t even remotely connected to your major.”

“I didn’t have a major when I started, Inga,” I explained. “I was just browsing. It was only after a year or so that I finally settled on English.”

“There are some definite holes in this,” she told me, still brandishing my transcript. “I’ve checked with the University of Washington, and you’ll have to take a couple of courses this summer to fill in the gaps. Les has contacts with some local banks, and your grades are good enough to qualify you for a student loan.”

I threw a quick look at my dad. We’d already discussed that at some length. He shook his head slightly.

“I’m sorry, Inga,” I said flatly. “Let’s just forget that student loan business. Sooner or later, I’m going to have a mortgage on a house biting chunks out of my paychecks, and probably car payments as well—that ol’ Dodge can’t run forever. I’m not going to add a student loan on top of that. I won’t hand three-quarters of my paycheck to the Last National Bank to pay interest. I’ll look for a part-time job, but no jobbee, no schoolie, and that’s final.”

“Oh, goodie!” one of the twins said, clapping her hands together. “We get to keep him!”

“Shush, Twink,” her mother snapped. I don’t think she even realized that my Twinkie invention had crept into her vocabulary.

The boss was squinting at the far wall. “When you get right down to it, Mark, you’ve already got a part-time job.”

“It’s full-time, isn’t it?” I replied.

“Of course it is,” he replied sardonically. “A guy who works by the hour paces himself to make the job fit the time. If you bear down, I’ll bet you could finish up in four or five hours a night, and if it starts to pile up, you could clear away the leftovers on Saturday.”

“And if you’re really serious about getting an education, you can live at home and commute to the university,” my mom added. “Your dad and I can’t send you to Harvard, but we can give you a place to live and regular meals. That way, you won’t have to rent an apartment or buy groceries.”

“Our big brother’s going to get away from us after all,” one of the twins lamented in mock sorrow.

“Nothing lasts forever, Twink,” I told her.

“Who’s going to tie our little shoes?” the other twin said.

“Or glove our little hands?” the first girl added.

“You’ll both survive,” I told them. “Be brave and strong and true, and you’ll get by.”

They stuck their tongues out at me in perfect unison.

“This is going to crowd you, Mark,” Les warned me. “You won’t have very much free time. Don’t make the same mistake I made when I went there. I managed to party my way onto the flunk-out list in just two years.” “I’m not big on parties, boss,” I assured him. “Listening to a bunch of half-drunk guys ranting about who’s going to make it to the Rose Bowl doesn’t thrill me. We can give the university a try, I guess, and if it doesn’t work out—ah, well.”

I filled in the gaps on my transcript that summer, and on a bright September morning, I drove down to the University of Washington to register. After I’d plodded through all the bureaucratic nonsense, I wandered the beaten paths to knowledge for a while—long beaten paths, I might add, since the campus measures about a mile in every direction. I finally found Padelford Hall, home of the English Department. After I’d located my classrooms, I drove back to Everett to get to work.

I took a stab at the “full-bore” business the boss had mentioned, and I found that he was right. I cleared everything away in just under five hours. That made me feel better.

Classes began the following Monday, and my first class, American Literature, started at eight-thirty. There was a kind of stricken silence in the classroom when the instructor entered. “It’s Conrad!” I heard a strangled whisper just behind me.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” the white-haired professor said crisply. “Your regularly scheduled instructor has recently undergone coronary bypass surgery, so I’ll be filling in for him this quarter. For those of you who don’t recognize me, I’m Dr. Ralph Conrad.” He looked round the classroom. “We will now pause to give the more timid time to beat an orderly retreat.”

Now, that’s an unusual way to start a class. I thought he was just kidding around, so I laughed.

“Was it something I said?” he asked me with one raised eyebrow.

“You startled me a bit, sir,” I replied. “Sorry.”

“Perfectly all right, young man,” he said benignly. “Laughter’s good for the soul. Enjoy it while you can.”

I glanced around and saw that fully half the students were grabbing up their books and darting for the door.

Professor Conrad looked at those of us who’d remained. “Brave souls,” he murmured. Then he looked directly at me. “Still with us, young man?” he asked mildly.

His superior attitude was starting to irritate me. “I’m here to learn, Dr. Conrad,” I told him. “I didn’t come here to party or chase girls. You throw, and I’ll catch, and I’ll still be here when the dust settles.”

What a dumb thing that was to say! I soon discovered just how tough he really was. He crowded me, I’ll admit that, but I stuck it out. He was obviously an old-timer who believed in the aristocracy of talent. He despised the term “postmodern,” and he viewed computers as instruments of the devil.

He had his mellower moments, though—fond reminiscences about “the good old days” when the English Department resided in the hallowed, though rickety, Parrington Hall and he was taking graduate courses from legendary professors such as Ebey, Sophus Winther, and E. E. Bostetter.

I maintained my “you throw it and I’ll catch it” pose, and that seemed to earn me a certain grudging respect from the terror of the department. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I aced the course, but I did manage to squeeze an A out of Dr. Conrad.

I was a bit startled at the beginning of winter quarter when I discovered that I’d been assigned to a new faculty advisor—at his request.

Guess who that was.

“You’ve managed to arouse my curiosity, Mr. Austin,” Dr. Conrad explained, after I rather bluntly asked him why he’d taken the trouble. “Students who work their way through college tend to take career-oriented classes. What possessed you to major in English?”

I shrugged. “I like to read, and if I can get paid for it, so much the better.”

“You plan to teach, then?”

“Probably so—unless I decide to write the Great American Novel.”

“I’ve read your papers, Mr. Austin,” he said dryly. “You’ve got a long way to go if that’s your goal.”

“It beats the hell out of pulling chain, Dr. Conrad.”

“Pulling chain?”

I explained it, and he seemed just a bit awed. “Are you saying that people still do that sort of thing?”

“It’s called ‘working for a living.’ I came here because I don’t wanna do that no more.”

He winced at my double negative.

“Just kidding, boss,” I told him. And I don’t think anybody’d ever called him “boss” before, because he didn’t seem to know how to handle it.

By the end of winter quarter that year I’d pretty well settled into the routine of being a working student. There were times when I ran a little short on sleep, but I could usually catch up on weekends.

I finished up the spring quarter of ‘94 and spent the summer working at the door factory to build up a backlog of cash. Things had been a little tight a few times that year.

The Twinkie Twins were high-school juniors now, and they’d definitely blossomed. Their hair had grown blonder, it seemed—chemically modified, no doubt—and their eyes were an intense blue. They’d also developed some other attributes that attracted lots of attention from their male classmates.

Looking back, I’m sometimes puzzled by my lack of “those kinds of thoughts” about the twins. They were moderately gorgeous, after all—tall, blond, well built, and with strangely compelling eyes. It was probably their plurality that put me off. In my mind they were never individuals. I thought of them as “they,” but never “she.”

From what I heard, though, the young fellows at their high school didn’t have that problem, and the twins were very popular. The only complaint seemed to be that nobody could ever get one of them off by herself.

It was during my senior year at U.W. that I finally came face to face with Moby Dick. The opening line, “Call me Ishmael” and the climactic, “I only am escaped to tell thee” set off all sorts of bells in my head. Captain Ahab awed me. You don’t want to mess around with a guy who could say, “I’d smite the sun if it offended me.” And his obsessive need to avenge himself on the white whale put him in the same class with Hamlet and Othello.

Moby Dick has been plowed and planted over and over by generations of scholars much better than I, though, and I didn’t really feel like chewing old soup for my paper in the course. Dr. Conrad was our instructor, naturally, and I was fairly certain that he’d take a rehash of previous examinations of the book as a personal insult.

Then I came across an interesting bit of information. It seems that when Melville was writing Billy Budd, he kept borrowing Milton’s Paradise Regained from the New York Public Library, and I began to see certain parallels.

Dr. Conrad found that kind of interesting. “I wouldn’t hang your doctoral dissertation on it, Mr. Austin,” he advised, “but you might squeeze an MA thesis out of it.”

“Am I going for an MA, boss?” I asked him.

“You bet your bippie you are,” he told me bluntly.

“Bippie?”

“Isn’t it time for you to get back to Everett and make more doors?” he asked irritably.

I considered the notion of graduate school while I was trimming door stock that evening. It was more or less inevitable—an English major without an advanced degree was still only about two steps away from the green chain. With an MA, I could probably get a teaching job at a community college—a distinct advantage, since the idea of teaching high school didn’t wind my watch very tight.

I had a sometime girlfriend back then, and she went ballistic when I told her about my decision to stay in school. I guess she’d been listening to the ghostly sound of wedding bells in her mind, which proves that she didn’t understand certain ugly truths. Her father was a businessman in Seattle, and mine was a working stiff in Everett. I don’t want to sound Marxist here, but old Karl was right about one thing. There are real differences between the classes. A rich kid doesn’t have to take his education too seriously, because there are all kinds of other options open for him. A working-class kid usually only has one shot at education, and he doesn’t dare let anything get in his way, and that includes girlfriends and marriage. The birth of the first child almost always means that he’ll spend the rest of his life pulling chain. Reality can be very ugly, sometimes.

This is very painful for me, so I’ll keep it short. In the spring of 1995, the twins attended one of those “kegger parties” on a beach near Mukilteo, just south of Everett. I’m not sure who bought the kegs of beer for them, but that’s not really important. The kids built the customary bonfire on the beach and proceeded to get red-eyed and rowdy. There were probably forty or fifty of them, and they were celebrating their upcoming graduation for all they were worth. Along toward midnight, things started to get physical. There were a few drunken fights, and a fair number of boys and girls were slipping off into the darkness for assorted boy-girl entertainments. At that point Regina and Renata decided that it was time to leave. They slipped away from the party, hopped into their new Pontiac—a graduation present from their folks—and started back to Everett.

Regina, the dominant twin, probably drove. Renata had her driver’s license, but she almost never took the wheel. They took the usual shortcut that winds up through Forest Park. It was in the vicinity of the petting zoo where they had a flat tire.

As best the authorities were able to reconstruct what happened, Regina left the car and walked to the zoo to find a phone. Renata stayed with the Pontiac for a while, then went looking for her sister.

The next morning the twins were discovered near the zoo. One was dead, raped and then hacked to death with something that wasn’t very sharp. The other twin was sitting beside the body with a look of total incomprehension on her face. When the authorities tried to question her, she replied in a language that nobody could understand.



The authorities—assorted cops, detectives, the coroner, and so on—questioned Mr. and Mrs. Greenleaf extensively, but they didn’t learn much: the boss and the missus were shattered and even in the best of times, they couldn’t translate the girls’ private language—they couldn’t even tell the girls apart. So after the cops discovered that Regina was the dominant twin, they assumed that it’d been Regina who’d been murdered and Renata who’d gone bonkers.

But nobody could prove it. The footprints routinely taken of all newborns turned out to be missing from the records at Everett General Hospital, and identical twins have identical DNA. Logic said that the dead girl was most likely Regina, but logic wasn’t good enough for filling out forms.

Les Greenleaf nearly flipped when he saw his daughter listed as an “unidentified female” in official reports.

The surviving twin continued to answer all questions in twin-speak, and so the Greenleafs had no choice but to put her in a private sanitarium in the hope that the headshrinkers could wake up her mind. They had to fill out papers, of course, and they arbitrarily listed their surviving daughter as Renata—but they couldn’t prove it either.

The murder remained unsolved.

My folks and I attended the funeral, of course, but there was no sense of that “closure” social workers babble about, because we couldn’t be certain which girl we were burying.

We didn’t see very much of the boss at the door factory that summer. Before he’d lost his daughters, he’d usually come strolling through the yard a couple of times a day. After the funeral, he stayed pretty much holed up in his office.



In August of that year that I had an even more personal tragedy. My folks had visited the Greenleafs one Friday evening, and as they were on their way home, they encountered what the cops refer to as a “high-speed chase.” A local drunk who’d had his driver’s license revoked after repeated arrests for “driving while intoxicated” got himself all liquored up in a downtown bar, and the cops spotted his car wandering around on both sides of Colby Avenue, one of the main streets in Everett. When the lush heard the siren and saw the red light flashing behind him, he evidently remembered the judge’s warning when his license had been lifted. The prospect of twenty years in the slammer evidently scared the hell out of him, so he stomped on his gas pedal. The cops gave chase, of course, and it was estimated that the drunk was going about ninety when he ran a red light and plowed into my folks. All three of them died in the crash.

I was completely out of it for a week or so, and Les Greenleaf took over making the funeral arrangements, attending to legal matters, and dealing with a couple of insurance companies.

I’d already enrolled for my first quarter of grad school that fall, but I called Dr. Conrad and asked him to put me on hold until winter quarter. My dad had been shrewd enough to buy mortgage insurance, so our modest home in north Everett was now mine, free and clear, and the life insurance policies covering both of my parents gave me a chunk of cash. Les Greenleaf suggested some investments, and I suddenly became a capitalist. I don’t imagine that I made Bill Gates very nervous, but at least I’d be able to get through graduate school without working for a living at the same time.

I’d have really preferred different circumstances, though.

I kept my job at the door factory—not so much for the wages as for something to keep me busy. Sitting at home wallowing in grief wouldn’t have been a very good idea. I’ve noticed that guys who do that are liable to start hitting the bottle. After what’d happened in August, I wasn’t too fond of drunks, or eager to join the ranks of the perpetually sauced-up.

I made fairly frequent trips to Seattle that fall. I didn’t want the university to slip into past tense in my mind, so I kept it right in front of me. As long as I was there anyway, I did a bit of preliminary work on my Melville-Milton theory. The more I dug into Paradise Regained, the more convinced I became that Billy Budd was derivative.

It was in late November, I think, when Mr. and Mrs. Greenleaf and I actually got some good news for a change. Renata—we had agreed among ourselves by then that it almost certainly was Renata in that private sanitarium—woke up. She stopped talking exclusively in twin-speak and began answering questions in English.

Our frequent contacts with Dr. Fallon, the chief of staff at the institution, had made us aware that twin-speak was common—so common, in fact, that it had a scientific name—”cryptolalia.” Dr. Fallon told us that it shows up in almost all cases of multiple births. The secret language of twins isn’t all that complicated, but a set of quintuplets can invent a language so complex that its grammar book would run to three volumes.

When Renata stopped speaking in cryptolalia, though, her first question suggested that she wasn’t out of the woods yet. When a patient wakes up and says, “Who am I?” it usually gets the psychiatrist’s immediate attention.

The private sanitarium where she was being treated was up at Lake Stevens, and I rode up with Les and Inga on a rainy Sunday afternoon to visit her.

The rest home was several cuts above a state-supported mental hospital, which is usually built to resemble various other state institutions where people are confined. This one was back among the trees on about five acres near the lakeshore, and there was a long, curving drive leading to a large, enclosed interior court, complete with a gate and a guard. It was obviously an institution of some kind, but a polite one. It was a place where wealthy people could stash relatives whose continued appearance in public had become embarrassing.

Dr. Wallace Fallon had an imposing office, and he was a slightly balding man in his midfifties. He cautioned us not to push Renata.

“Sometimes all it takes to restore an amnesiac’s memory is a familiar face or a familiar turn of phrase. That’s why I’ve asked you three to stop by, but let’s be very, very careful. I’m fairly sure that Renata’s amnesia is a way to hide from the death of her sister. That’s something she’s not ready to face yet.”

“She will recover, won’t she?” Inga demanded.

“That’s impossible to say right now. I’m hoping that your visit will help her start regaining her memory—bits and pieces of it, anyway. I’m certain that she won’t remember what happened to her sister. That’s been totally blotted out. Let’s keep this visit fairly short, and we’ll want it light and general. I have her mildly sedated, and I’ll watch her very closely. If she starts getting agitated, we’ll have to cut the visit short.”

“Would hypnotism bring her out of it?” I asked him.

“Possibly, but I don’t think it’d be a good idea right now. Her amnesia’s a hiding place, and she needs that for the time being. There’s no way to know how long she’ll need it. There have been cases where an amnesiac never recovers his memory. He lives a normal life—except that he has no memory of his childhood. Sometimes, his memory’s selective. He remembers this, but doesn’t remember that. We’ll have to play it by ear and see just how far she’s ready to go.”

“Let’s go see her,” Inga said abruptly.

Dr. Fallon nodded and led us out of his office and down a hallway.

Renata’s room was quite large and comfortable-looking. Everything about it was obviously designed to suggest a calm stateliness. The carpeting was deep and lush, the furniture was traditional, and the window drapes were a neutral blue. A hotel room in that class would probably cost a hundred dollars a night. Renata was sitting in a comfortable reclining chair by the window, placidly looking out at the rain writhing down to sweep the lake.

“Renata,” Dr. Fallon said gently, “Your parents have come to visit you, and they’ve brought a friend.”

She smiled rather vaguely. “That’s nice,” she replied in a fuzzy sort of voice. Dr. Fallon’s definition of “mildly sedated” might have differed from mine by quite a bit. It looked to me as if Renata was tranked to the eyeballs. She looked rather blankly at her parents with no sign of recognition.

Then she saw me. “Markie!” she squealed. She scrambled to her feet and came running across the room to hurl herself into my arms, laughing and crying at the same time. “Where have you been?” she demanded, clinging to me desperately. “I’ve been lost here without you.” I held her while she cried, and I stared at her parents and Dr. Fallon in absolute bafflement. It was obvious from their expressions that they had no more idea of what was going on than I did.



FIRST MOVEMENT ADAGIO (#ulink_161d9660-ea54-57e7-b536-560c2cc234c7)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_dc6e6918-c3a5-536a-8559-ead0c33f5f62)


“What’s happening here?” Les Greenleaf demanded, after Renata had been sedated into a peaceful slumber and we’d returned to Fallon’s office. “I thought you told us that she has total amnesia.”

“Evidently, it’s not quite as total as we thought,” Fallon replied, grinning broadly. “I think this might be a major breakthrough.”

“Why does she recognize Mark and not us?” Inga sounded offended.

“I haven’t got the faintest idea,” Fallon confessed, “but the fact that she recognizes somebody is very significant. It means that her past isn’t a total blank.”

“Then she’ll get her memory back?” Inga asked.

“Some of it, at least. It’s too early to tell how much.” Fallon looked at me then. “Would it be possible for you to stay here for the next few days, Mark?” he asked. “For some reason, you seem to be the key to Renata’s memory, so I’d like to have you available.”

“No problem, Doc,” I replied. “If the boss can drop me off at my place, I’ll grab a few things and come right back up the hill.”

“Good. I’ll want you right there when Renata wakes up. We’ve made a connection, and we don’t want to lose it.”

Les and Inga took me back to my place when we left the sanitarium. I tossed some clothes and stuff into a suitcase, grabbed some books, and drove my old Dodge back to Lake Stevens. I was as baffled as everybody else had been by Renata’s recognition of me, and it’d caught me completely off guard. There’d been a kind of desperation about the way she’d clung to me—almost like somebody hanging on to a life raft.

“We don’t necessarily have to mention this to her parents, Mark,” Fallon told me when I reported in, “but I think you’d better be right there in the room when Renata wakes up. Let’s not take any chances and lose this. All the rooms here have surveillance cameras, so I’ll be watching and listening. Don’t push her or say anything about why she’s here. Just be there.”

“I think I see where you’re going, Doc,” I told him.



The shot Dr. Fallon had given her kept Twink totally out of it until the next morning, and that gave me time to think my way through the situation. I was still working through my grief at losing my parents, but it was time to put my problems aside and concentrate, here and now, on Twink. If she needed me, I sure as hell wasn’t going to let her down.

I pushed the reclining chair over beside her bed, pulled the blanket up around my ears, and tapped out.

When I woke the next morning, Renata was still sound asleep, but she was holding my hand. Either she’d come about halfway out of her drug-induced slumber and found something to hold on to, or she’d just groped around for it in her sleep. Then again, it might have been me who’d been looking. It was sort of hard to say.

One of the orderlies brought our breakfast about seven, and I tugged on Twink’s hand a couple of times. “Hey, sack-rat,” I said, “rise and shine. It’s daylight in the swamp.”

She woke up smiling, for God’s sake! That’s sick! Nobody smiles that early in the morning!

“I need a hug,” she said.

“Not ‘til you get up.”

“Grouch,” she accused me, her face still radiant.



That first day was a little strange. Twink watched me all the time, and she had a vapid look on her face every minute. I tried to read, but it’s awfully hard to concentrate when you can feel somebody watching you.

There was also a fair amount of spontaneous hugging.

I checked in with Dr. Fallon late that afternoon, and he suggested that I should probably let Twink know that I wasn’t going to be a permanent fixture. “Tell her that you’ll have to go back to work before too much longer. Let her know that you’ll visit her often, but you have to earn a living.”

“That’s not entirely true, Doc,” I told him. “I’ve got a few bucks stashed away.”

“You don’t need to mention that, Mark. We don’t want her to become totally dependent on your presence here. I think the best course might be to gradually wean her away. Stay here for a few more days, and then find some reason to run back to Everett for an afternoon. We’ll play it by ear and see how she reacts. Sooner or later, she’s going to have to learn how to stand alone.”

“You’re the expert, Doc. I won’t do anything to hurt her, though.”

“I think she might surprise you, Mark.”



There was another bout of hugging when I got back to Twink’s room. That seemed just a bit odd. There hadn’t been much physical contact between the twins and me in the past, but now it seemed that every time I turned around, she had her arms wrapped around me. “Renata,” I said finally, “you do know that we aren’t alone, don’t you?” I pointed at the surveillance camera.

“These aren’t those kinds of hugs, Markie.” She shrugged it off. “There are hugs and then there are hugs. We don’t do the other kinds of hugs, do we? And I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘Renata.’ I don’t like that name.”

“Oh?”

“I’m Twinkie, remember? Only people who don’t know me call me ‘Renata.’ I knew that I was Twinkie the moment I saw you. It was such a relief to find out who I really am. All the ‘Ren-blah-blah’ stuff made me want to throw up.”

“We don’t get to pick our names, kid. That’s in the mommy and daddy department.”

“Tough cookies. I’m Twinkie, and I’m so cute and sweet that nobody can stand me.”

“Steady on, Twink,” I told her.

“Don’t you think I’m cute and sweet, Markie?” she said with obviously put-on childishness, fluttering her eyelashes at me.

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself.

“Gotcba!” she crowed with delight. Then she threw a sly glance at the surveillance camera. “And I got you too, didn’t I, Dockie-poo?” she said, obviously addressing Dr. Fallon, who was almost certainly watching.

“Dockie-poo?” I asked mildly.

“All of us cute and sweet nutcases make up pet names for the people and things around us. I have long conversations with Moppie and Broomie all the time. They aren’t too interesting, but a girl needs somebody to talk to, doesn’t she?”

“I think your load’s shifting, Twink.”

“I know. That’s why I’m in the nuthouse. This is the walnut ward. They keep the filberts and pecans in the other wing. We aren’t supposed to talk with them, because their shells are awfully brittle, and they crack up if you look at them too hard. I was kind of brittle when I first got here, but now that I know who I really am, everything’s all right again.”

She was sharp; she was clever; and she could be absolutely adorable when she wanted to be. I definitely hoped that Doc Fallon was watching. I was certain that her distaste for her name was very significant. Now she had “Twinkie” to hold on to, so she could push “Renata”—and “Regina”—into the background. Maybe “Twinkie” was going to be her passport back to the world of people who call themselves “normal.”

I stayed for a couple more days, and then I used the “gotta go to work” ploy Fallon had suggested to ease my way out—well, sort of. I didn’t really stay away very much. As soon as I got off work at the door factory, I’d bag it on up to Lake Stevens to spend the evening with Twink.

Once she’d made the name-change and put “Renata” on the back burner, Twink’s recovery to at least partial sanity seemed to surprise even Dr. Fallon. Evidently, her switchover to “Twink” was something on the order of an escape hatch. She left “Regina” behind, along with “Renata,” and she seemed to grow more stable with each passing day.



Dr. Fallon decided that she was doing well enough that it’d probably be all right if she took a short furlough for Christmas.

It was a subdued sort of holiday—1995 hadn’t been a very good year for any of us. Twink’s aunt Mary, her dad’s sister, was about the only bright spot during the whole long holiday weekend, which might seem a bit strange, in view of the fact that Mary was a Seattle police officer. But she’d always been fond of the twins, and now she refused to treat Twink as if she were damaged merchandise—the way Les and Inga did. She smoothly stepped over the blank spots in Twink’s memory and more or less ignored her niece’s status as a mental patient on furlough. That seemed to help Twink, and the two of them grew very close during that long weekend. That in turn helped me raise a subject that had worried me more than a little.

It was on Christmas Day that I braced myself and finally broke the news to Twink that our schedule was about to change. “I’ll still be living at home, Twink,” I reassured her, “but I’ll be going to classes at the university instead of working at the door factory. I’ll have to study quite a bit, though, so my visits might be a little shorter.”

“I’ll be fine, Markie,” she said. Then she gave me one of those wide-eyed, vapid looks. “Have you heard the news? Some terribly clever fellow named Bell came up with the niftiest idea you ever heard of. He calls it the telephone. Isn’t that neat? You can visit me without even driving up the hill to the bughouse.”

Mary suddenly exploded with laughter.

“All right, Twink.” I felt a little foolish. “Would it bother you if I gave you a phone call instead of coming up there?”

“As long as I know that you care, I’ll be fine. I’m a tough little cookie—or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Maybe you two should clear that with Dr. Fallon,” Inga suggested, sounding worried.

“I’ll be fine, Inga,” Renata assured her. For some reason, Twink had trouble with “Mom” and “Dad,” so she called her parents by their names instead. I decided to have a talk with Fallon about that.



After the holidays, I returned to the university and started taking seminars, beginning with Graduate English Studies. That’s when I discovered just how far down into the bowels of the earth the main library building extended. I think there was more of it underground than above the surface. Graduate English Studies concentrated on “how to find stuff in the Lye-berry.” That deliberate mispronunciation used to make Dr. Conrad crazy, so I’d drop it on him every now and then just for laughs.

I was still commuting to Everett, even though the two hours of driving back and forth cut into my study time quite a bit. I had a long talk with Twink, and we sort of worked out a schedule. I’d visit her on weekends, but our weekday conversations were held on the phone. Dr. Fallon wasn’t too happy about that, but headshrinkers sometimes lose contact with the real world—occupational hazard, I suppose.

Renata’s amnesia remained more or less total—except for occasional flashes that didn’t really make much sense to her. Her furloughs from the hospital grew more frequent and lasted for longer periods of time. Dr. Fallon didn’t come right out and say it, but it seemed to me that he’d finally concluded that Twinkie would never regain her memory.

Inga Greenleaf, with characteristic German efficiency, went through Castle Greenleaf and removed everything even remotely connected to Regina.



When the fall quarter of 1996 rolled around, Dr. Conrad decided that it was time for me to get my feet wet on the front side of the classroom, so he bullied me into applying for a graduate teaching assistantship, the academic equivalent of slavery. We didn’t pick cotton; we taught freshman English instead. It was called Expository Writing, and it definitely exposed the nearly universal incompetence of college freshmen. I soon reached the point where I was absolutely certain that if I saw, “…in my opinion, I think that…” one more time, I’d be joining Twinkie in the bughouse.

I endured two quarters of Expository Writing. But when the spring quarter of 1997 rolled around, I tackled my thesis and I demonstrated—to my own satisfaction, at least—that Billy Budd was a seagoing variation of Paradise Regained, with Billy and the evil master-at-arms, Mr. Claggart, contending with each other for the soul of Captain Vere. Since Billy was the hands-down winner, Melville’s little parable was not the tragedy it’s commonly believed to be. My thesis ruffled a few feathers in the department, and that was enough to get my doctoral candidacy approved and my MA signed, sealed, and delivered.

When Twink heard that I was now a Master of Arts, she launched into an overdone imitation of Renfield in the original Dracula movie. I got a little tired of that “Yes, Master! Yes, Master!” business, but Twinkie had a lot of fun with it, so what the hell?

I took the summer of ‘97 off. I could have taken a couple of courses during summer quarter, but I needed a break, and now that Renata was an outpatient at Dr. Fallon’s private nuthouse, I wanted to be available in case her load started to shift again. Of course, Fallon wasn’t about to let her stray too far. Twink had a standing appointment to visit him every Friday afternoon for an hour of what psychiatrists choose to call “counseling”—at 150 bucks an hour. Twink wasn’t too happy about that, but, since it was one of the conditions of her release, she grudgingly went along.

It was probably my connection with the university that nudged Twink into deciding to enroll there. That made her parents nervous, but Twink was way ahead of them. “I can probably stay with Aunt Mary, Les,” she told her father. “She is a relative after all. Imposing on relatives is one of those inalienable rights, isn’t it?”

The boss looked dubious. His sister had violated one of the more important rules of the Catholic Church when she’d divorced an abusive husband, and her frequent comments about “the Polack in Rome” had offended Les more than a little. “Maybe,” he said evasively. “Let’s find out what Dr. Fallon has to say.” It was fairly obvious that old Les was trying to pass the buck. I had a few doubts about the idea myself, so I tagged along when the boss went to lay the idea in front of Dr. Fallon.

“It’s an interesting idea,” Fallon mused. “Your daughter’s been a bit reclusive since she left here, and the college experience might help her get past that. The only problem I can see is the pressure that goes with attending classes regularly, writing papers, and taking tests. I don’t know if she’s ready for that yet.”

“She could audit a few courses for a couple of quarters,” I suggested.

“Audit?” Les sounded startled.

“It’s not like an audit by Internal Revenue, boss,” I assured him. “All it means in a college is that the student sits in and listens. Twink wouldn’t have to do any course work, or write any papers, or take any tests, because she wouldn’t be graded. Wouldn’t that take the pressure off her, Doc?” I asked Fallon.

“I’d forgotten about that,” he admitted.

“It isn’t too common,” I told him. “You don’t come across very many who take classes for fun, but we’ve got a special situation here. I’ll check it out and see what’s involved.”

“That’d put it in an entirely different light,” Fallon said. “Renata gets the chance to broaden her social experience without any pressure. What kind of work does your sister do, Les?”

“She’s a cop.”

“A police officer? Really?”

“She’s not out on the street with gun and nightstick,” Les told him. “Actually, she’s a dispatcher in the precinct station in north Seattle. She works the graveyard shift, so her days and nights are turned around a bit, but otherwise she’s fairly normal.”

“How does she get along with Renata?”

“Quite well—at least during the few times she visited us when Renata was on furloughs from your sanitarium. Mary was always fond of the twins.”

“Why don’t you have a talk with her? Explain the situation, and tell her that this is something in the nature of an experiment. If Renata’s able to deal with the situation, well and good. If it causes too much stress, we might have to reconsider the whole idea. Mark here can keep an eye on her and let us know if this isn’t working. Renata trusts him, so she’ll probably tell him if the arrangement gets to be more than she can handle.”

“That still baffles me,” Les admitted. “They didn’t seem all that close before—” He broke off, obviously not wanting to mention Regina’s murder.

“It’s like the buddyship you and Dad picked up in ‘Nam, boss,” I told him. “The Twinkie Twins grew up believing that ‘Markie can fix anything.’ Maybe that’s why Renata recognized me and couldn’t recognize anybody else. I’m Mr. Fix-it, and she knew that something had to be fixed.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Fallon observed, “but I think it comes fairly close to explaining Renata’s recognition of Mark. As long as it’s there, let’s use it. I think we should give this a try, gentlemen. Renata’s environment can be reasonably controlled, there won’t be any pressure, and she can expand her social contacts and come out of her shell. Let’s ease her into it gradually, and see how she copes. Just be sure she doesn’t start missing her Friday counseling sessions. I’ll definitely want to keep a close eye on her myself.”



I’d known Mary Greenleaf since before the twins had been born, because she’d been a frequent visitor at her brother’s house in Everett when I’d been the center of attention there. We’d always gotten along, and when the twins had come along, she’d been nice enough to keep on paying a little bit of attention to me, instead of dropping me like a hot rock, the way everybody else seemed to do.

She was about ten years younger than her brother was, and she lived in the Wallingford district in Seattle, about two miles from the university campus. I think her proximity to the campus might have played some part in Twink’s decision to take a run at the university rather than the local community college.

Mary’d married young, and it hadn’t taken her very long to discover that her marriage had been a terrible mistake. Her husband turned out to be one of those “Let’s all get drunk and then go home and beat up our wives” sorts of guys.

She got to know a fair number of Seattle policemen during those years, since they routinely picked up her husband for domestic violence and hauled him off to jail.

Then there’d been counseling, which didn’t work; and eventually restraining orders, which didn’t work either, since Mary’s husband viewed them as a violation of his right to slap his wife around anytime he felt like it.

Then Mary had filed for a divorce, which upset her priest and sent her husband right straight up the wall. He nosed around in several seedy taverns until he found some jerk willing to sell him a gun. Then he’d declared an open season on wives who object to being kicked around.

Fortunately, he was a rotten shot, and the gun he’d bought was a piece of junk that jammed up after the third round. He did manage to hit Mary in the shoulder before the cops arrived, and that got him a free ride to the state penitentiary for attempted murder.

Mary sort of approved of that.

She knew that he’d get out eventually, though, and that was probably what led her to take up a career in law enforcement. A cop is required to carry a gun all the time, and Mary was almost positive that sooner or later she was going to need one. A more timid lady would probably have changed her name and moved to Minneapolis or Boston, but Mary wasn’t the timid type.

Right at first, she’d spent a lot of her spare time at the pistol range practicing for her own personal version of the gunfight at the OK Corral. Her church didn’t approve of her divorce, but Mary had come up with an alternative—instant widowhood. As it turned out, though, her husband irritated the wrong people in the state pen, and he suddenly came down with a bad case of dead after somebody stabbed him about forty-seven times.

Mary didn’t go into deep mourning when she heard the news.

I liked her: She was one heck of a gal.

Les Greenleaf wasn’t happy about Twink’s decision to move to Seattle. I think he hoped his sister would reject the idea of having her niece move in with her. But Mary shot him right out of the saddle on that one when he and I drove to Seattle in August of ‘97 to talk it over with her.

“No problem,” Mary said. “I’ve got plenty of room here, and Ren and I get along just fine.”

“You do understand that she’s just a little—” Les groped for a suitable word.

“Screwball, you mean?” Mary asked bluntly. “Yes, I know all about it. I’m used to screwballs, Les. Half the people I work with aren’t playing with a full deck. Renata’s going to be fine here with me.”

“Well,” he said dubiously, “I guess we can try it for one quarter to see how she does. But if it starts giving her problems…” He left it hanging.

“I’ll be here, too, boss,” I told him. “I’ll get a room nearby and, between us, Mary and I can keep Twink on an even keel.”

“You’re going to have to let go, Les,” Mary told him. “If you try to protect her for the rest of her life, you’ll turn her into a basket case. I love her, too, and I won’t let you do that to her. She comes here; and that’s that.” Mary wasn’t the sort for shilly-shallying around when it came to making decisions.



The chore of moving Twink to Seattle fell into my lap. Her father had a business to run, and I wasn’t doing anything important anyway. There was a lot of driving back and forth between Everett and Seattle involved in easing Twink into her new situation, and the whole procedure took the better part of two weeks. There are people who can move halfway across the country in less time, but we all wanted to take it a little slow with this move. Stress was the last thing Renata needed.

“Why’s everybody so uptight about this?” she asked me while I was driving her back to Everett to pick up some more of her clothes. “I’m a big girl now.”

“We just want to make sure you’re not going to come unraveled again, Twink,” I told her.

“My seams are all still pretty tight,” she said. “Actually, I’m looking forward to this. Les and Inga keep tiptoeing around me like I was made out of eggshells. I wish they’d learn how to relax. Mary’s a lot easier to be around.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” I hesitated slightly, but then I sort of blurted it out. “Your dad’s got a real bad case of protective-itis, Twink. He’s not happy about this whole project, but Doc Fallon overruled him. Fallon believes it’ll be good for you—as long as we can keep the pressure off. Your dad would much rather wrap you in cotton batting and keep you in a little jewel box.”

“I know,” she agreed. “That was my main reason for suggesting the university instead of the community college. I’ve got to get out from under his thumb, Markie. That house in Everett is almost as bad as Fallon’s bughouse. I need to have you somewhere nearby, but Les and Inga are starting to give me the heebie-jeebies. Whether they like it or not, Twinkie is going to grow up.”

That caught me a little off guard. Twink had been kind of passive since she’d come out of Fallon’s sanitarium, but now she sounded anything but passive. This was a new Twinkie, and I wasn’t sure where she was going.

It was a dreary Sunday in early September when I went cruising around the Wallingford district to find a place for me to live. I stuck mostly to the back streets, where older houses that had seen better days. Almost all displayed that discreet ROOMS TO LET sign in a front window. Generations of university students had fanned out from the campus in search of cheap lodgings, and property owners all over north Seattle obligingly offered rooms, many of which took “cheap” all the way down to the flophouse level.

The thing that attracted me to one particular house was an addition to the standard ROOMS TO LET placard. It read FOR SERIOUS STUDENTS ONLY with “SERIOUS” underlined in bright red ink.

I pulled to the curb and sat looking at the self-proclaimed home for the elite. On the plus side, it was no more than five blocks from Mary’s house, and that was fairly important. It wasn’t in very good condition, but that didn’t bother me all that much. I was looking for a place where I could sleep and study, not some showplace to impress visitors.

Then a bulky-shouldered black man came around the side of the house carrying a large cardboard box filled with what appeared to be scraps from some sort of building project. The black man had arms as thick as fence posts, silvery hair, and a distinguished-looking beard.

I got out of my car when he reached the curb. “Excuse me, neighbor,” I said politely. “Do you happen to know why the owner of this house is making such an issue of ‘serious’?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Trish has some fairly strong antiparty prejudices,” he replied in a voice so deep that it seemed to be coming up out of his shoes.

“Trish?”

“Patricia Erdlund,” he explained. “Swedish girl, obviously. The house belongs to her aunt, but Auntie Grace had a stroke last year. Trish’s sister, Erika, was living here at the time, and she put in an emergency call to her big sister. Trish is in law school, and Erika just finished premed, so they weren’t too happy to be living in the middle of a twelve-week-long beer bust. I’ve lived here for six years, so I’ve more or less learned to turn my ears off, but the Erdlund girls aren’t that adaptable. They announced a no-drinking policy, and that emptied the place out almost immediately. Now they’re looking for suitable recruits to fill the place back up.”

“I don’t want to be offensive,” I said carefully, “but aren’t you a bit old to be a student? You are a student, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “I’m a late bloomer—I was thirty-five before I got started. My name’s James Forester,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand.

“Mark Austin,” I responded, shaking hands with him.

“What’s your field, Mark?”

“English.”

“Grad student?”

I nodded. “Ph.D. candidate. What’s your area?”

“Philosophy and comparative religion.”

“How many people do the Erdlund girls plan to cram into the house?”

“We’ve got two empty rooms on the second floor. There are a couple of cubicles in the attic and several more in the basement, but they’re hardly fit for human habitation. Auntie Grace used to rent them out—el cheapo—to assorted indigents who always had trouble paying the rent, maybe because they routinely spent the rent money on booze or dope. That’s where most of the noise was coming from, so Trish and Erika decided to leave them empty and concentrate on finding quiet, useful people to live in the regular rooms.”

“Useful?”

“There are some domestic chores involved in the arrangement. I’ve got a fair degree of familiarity with plumbing, and I can usually hook wires together without blowing too many fuses. The house has been seriously neglected for the past dozen or so years, so it falls into the ‘fixer-upper’ category. Have you had any experience in any of the building trades?”

“I know a little bit about carpentry,” I replied. “I’ve spent a few years working in a door factory up in Everett. Let’s say I know enough to back off when I’m out of my depth.”

“That should be enough, really. The girls aren’t planning any major remodeling. Replacing wallboard that’s had holes kicked in it is probably about as far as it’ll go.”

“No problem, then.”

“I think you and I could get along, Mark, and I’m definitely outnumbered right now. It’s very trying to be the only man in the house with three ladies.”

“Who’s the third girl?”

“Our Sylvia. She’s in abnormal psych—which is either her field of study or a clinical description of Sylvia herself. She’s an Italian girl, cute as a button, but very excitable.”

“You’re all alone here with two Swedes and an Italian? You definitely need help, brother.”

“Amen to that.” He paused. “Do you happen to know anything about auto mechanics?” he asked me then.

“Not so’s you’d notice it. I can change a flat or replace spark plugs if I have to, but that’s about as far as it goes. My solution to any other mechanical problem is to reach for a bigger hammer. Does somebody have a sick car?”

“All three girls do—or think they do. Auto mechanics seem to turn into rip-off artists when a girl drives into their shop. That’s why these three want to have an in-house mechanic. Last winter, Sylvia was ready to sue General Motors because her car wasn’t getting the kind of mileage GM promised. I tried to explain that warming the car up for an hour every morning might have had something to do with it, but she kept insisting that as long as the car wasn’t moving, it shouldn’t make any difference.”

“You’re not serious!”

“Oh, yes. Sylvia has absolutely no idea at all about what’s going on under the hood of her car. She seems to think that warming the car up to get the heater running has no connection at all with putting it in gear and driving it down the block. Every time I tried to explain it, I ran into a solid wall of invincible ignorance.” He shook his head sadly. “Now that you’re aware of some of our peculiarities, are you at all interested in our arrangement?”

“I wasn’t really thinking about a room and board kind of situation,” I replied dubiously. “I keep irregular hours, and I’ve been living on Big Macs for the past few years.”

“Erika’s likely to tell you that a steady diet of Big Macs is the highway to heart surgery, Mark. The girls tend to overmother everybody in the vicinity. And they scold—a lot. You get used to that after a while. Nobody here is really rolling in money, so the room and board’s quite reasonable. The food’s good, and the girls take care of the laundry. To get the benefits, though, you lose your Saturdays. Saturday is national fix-up day around here. If you’re interested, I can show you around the place.”

“Aren’t the ladies here?”

“No. They’re all off visiting before classes begin.”

“I might as well have a look,” I agreed.

“Come along, then,” he said, starting toward the antique front door with its small, ornate glass inserts.

“Are there any other house rules I should know about?” I asked when we reached the porch.

“They aren’t too restrictive. No dope sort of fits in with the no booze policy, and the no loud music stipulation doesn’t really bother me.”

“I can definitely agree with that one. Any others?”

“No in-house hanky-panky is the only other restriction. The girls aren’t particularly prudish, but they’ve encountered problems in that area in the past.”

“That’s been going around lately,” I agreed, as we went on into the entryway.

“The rule runs both ways,” he continued. “The girls are off-limits, but the boys are, too. We’re not supposed to make passes at them, and they’re not supposed to make passes at us. No physical stuff on the premises.”

“It makes sense,” I agreed. “Emotional involvement can get noisy.” I looked around. The entryway had a pre-World War II feel about it. A wide staircase of dark wood led up to the second floor, and an archway opened into a living room that was quite a bit larger than the ones in more contemporary houses.

“The downstairs is girl territory,” James told me. “Boy country’s upstairs.” He led me on into the living room. The ceilings were high, the windows all seemed tall and narrow, and the woodwork was dark. “Elegant,” I noted.

“Shabbily elegant,” James corrected. “It’s a bit run-down, but it’s got a homey feel. The dining room’s through those sliding doors, and the kitchen’s at the back. It’s got a breakfast nook, where the girls and I’ve been taking most of our meals. Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll show you the bedrooms.”

We went up the wide staircase to the second floor. “My place is at the end of the hall,” he told me, “and the bathroom’s right next to it. The two at this end are vacant.” He opened the door on the right.

The room had the sloped ceiling you encounter on the second floor of older houses, and it’d obviously seen some hard use over the years. It was quite a bit larger than I’d expected, and the contemporary furniture looked dwarfed by the generous size of the room.

“The fellow who lived here before prohibition came into effect was a drunken slob,” James told me, “and he was hard on furniture. He wanted to get physical when Trish kicked him out after the third time she caught him sneaking whiskey in here, but I reasoned with him and persuaded him not to.”

“Persuaded?”

“I threw him down the stairs, then tossed all his stuff out the window.”

“That gets right to the point, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve had a fair amount of success with it—one of the advantages of being bigger than a freight truck. The rest of the party boys who lived here got the point, and they were all very polite to Trish after that. What do you think about the place, Mark? Would you like to take a stab at it?”

“I think I might give it a try. A quiet place to study sort of lights my fire. When are the girls likely to come home?”

“Tomorrow—or so they told me. I’ll give you the phone number, and you can check before you come by. I’ll put in a good word for you with the ladies. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble getting admitted.”

“Thanks, James. I’ll keep in touch.” We shook hands, and then I went out to my car. James had a “Big Daddy” quality that I liked. I was sure he and I could get along. The girls, of course, might sour the deal, but I decided to keep an open mind until I met them. The overall arrangement seemed almost too good to be true, but I wasn’t about to buy into some kind of absolute dictatorship where I’d be low man on the totem pole. I was going to have to wait until tomorrow to find out exactly which way the wind blew.





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