by John Darnton
"These guys—what did you call them? 'Orderlies.' That's a peculiar name—I wonder what that signifies. A moment ago, you said they're brutal. What did you mean?"
"Just that. They were in charge of us. They were friendly when we were growing up. We looked up to them like brothers. But I began to feel that they kept us on the island by force, that if we tried to leave, they would hunt us down."
"And what would they do? I mean, would they actually kill you?"
Skyler said he didn't know.
"So that's why you think they're after you now—to kill you?"
He shrugged, then nodded yes again.
"But that doesn't make any sense. Why would they want to kill you? Just for leaving the island?"
"Maybe there's another reason."
"What?"
"To prevent this, what just happened."
"And what's that?"
"My meeting you."
The answer stopped Jude cold, and he spent some time in thinking it through. It didn't make sense. So what if he did have an identical twin brother, and so what if they were separated at birth, either intentionally or through some sort of accident? Why in God's name would anyone take such drastic steps just to keep them apart? On the other hand, why were those guys on the subway following him?
He looked across the table at Skyler, who appeared exhausted. He slid the bottle of scotch to him.
"Here. Try some of this. Maybe it'll buck you up."
Skyler raised the bottle to his lips, took a swig and felt the fiery liquid grab the back of his throat. He sputtered, leapt to his feet, grabbed his neck and ran to the sink, ran the tap and took a long draught of water. He turned, water dripping down his shirt, his eyes wide.
"Jesus Christ," he exclaimed.
Jude could not help himself—he laughed, so hard that he rocked back and forth in the chair, and at that sight Skyler smiled himself and even let loose a chuckle. It sounded for all the world like a chuckle that Jude might make.
"Here, sit down," said Jude, pulling a chair out from the table. "Before we go any further, there's something I've got to do."
Skyler sat in the straight-back wooden chair. Jude rummaged around in a drawer and came up with a large pair of kitchen scissors. He clicked them twice in the air, pulled out a dish towel, and stood behind Skyler, placing the towel around his neck and tucking it into his collar. As he placed one hand upon his shoulder, feeling the thinness of the bone underneath, Jude realized that it was the first time that he had touched him.
The hair came off in great swaths, falling onto the towel and Skyler's shoulders and onto the linoleum in little piles.
"Nothing fancy," Jude said, turning to look at Skyler's face head-on and measuring the sides with a critical appraisal. "We'll get you a real haircut tomorrow. This is just to get you through the night. You can't stay here looking like that. Shit, any neighbors see you, you'd give me a bad name."
With his locks sheared, Skyler looked halfway presentable. He also looked more like Jude—though thinner and more raw-boned. Also, thought Jude, he looks younger than before.
Maybe it was the liquor, but Jude was beginning to feel bound to Skyler. He felt a strange ambivalence. Some moments, he felt protective of him, as if he were a feral boy who needed a kindly human hand. At others, he felt repelled and even angry, as if Skyler was an interloper who had no right to thrust himself into Jude's world—to claim a piece of him, as it were. And he noticed that as his feelings kept flipping back and forth, so too did his perceptions. One moment he would acknowledge the uncanny similarity between the two of them and think they were virtually identical; the next he would reject it and wonder what he was doing feeding and tending a total stranger. He felt as if he were looking at a double-illusion painting, but he could not find a reference point to hold one image steady and he had not the slightest idea which was real and which was fake.
In any case, he had already made a decision that he would help Skyler out of his difficulty, whatever it was. His mind was running ahead to tomorrow. He wondered if he was placing himself in danger and—if it came to that—how big a risk he was prepared to run. He didn't know. How extraordinary. He thought: I've known him for all of an hour, and already on some level I know that he is going to change my life in some significant way—perhaps irrevocably.
"You better get some sleep," he said. "You can take my room. I'll sleep on the couch. I'm not ready for bed right now anyway."
He put a hand on Skyler's shoulder to guide him. They walked through the living room into the bedroom. Jude went to the dresser and pulled out a pair of blue-striped pajamas, and tossed them on the bed. He looked at Skyler's face, already familiar, and read his mind.
"They're called pajamas," he said. "We wear them at night when we sleep. Welcome to the twentieth century."
Jude showed Skyler the bathroom, especially the taps, and thought he would be impressed by hot and cold running water. He did not know that Skyler had stopped listening, that Skyler was no longer paying attention to anything he said.
Skyler's mind was roiling. His pulse was racing, and he was exerting a huge effort simply to try to appear normal, to control his emotions, as if nothing had happened. It was almost impossible for him to do.
For he had just seen something that had turned his world upside down. When he had stepped into the bedroom behind Jude, his gaze had taken in the bureau drawers, the pine shelves crammed with books, the large bed. And then it had fallen upon a bedside table and something that was on top of the table.
"Good night," said Jude.
And Skyler mumbled a few words in return.
As soon as Jude left the room, Skyler rushed over to the table and clutched the photograph of Tizzie. He held it up and studied it minutely, then sat on the bed and stared at it some more. His pulse raced even harder.
The hair was different, more luxuriant, falling in waves. The cheeks were not as full and the cast of the eyes looked a bit older. But other than that, there were no major differences. There was no doubt about it the face under the glass, looking back at him with a smile, was Julia's.
¨
When Jude awoke on the couch, his head ached and his mouth felt as if a vacuum cleaner had sucked it dry. The hangover preoccupied him for a moment or two, blotting out everything else. Like an inchoate but cumbrous shadow, the improbable happenings of the night before loomed in some back corner of his mind. But not for long. The memories sprang to life, and the shadow vaulted onto center stage. In the morning light that streamed in through the blinds, amazement mixed with incredulity.
Was it possible? he asked himself, half hoping that he had dreamed the whole episode.
But then he heard Skyler, already up and stirring.
He found him in the kitchen, sitting at the table, doing nothing. He appeared drained and exhausted, with yellow circles under his eyes. The haircut Jude had given him was showing its imperfections, with tufts of longish hair sticking out here and there, and his unkempt beard brushed the top of his chest. He was still in the blue-striped pajamas, so that sitting there, and looking up somewhat wide-eyed as Jude entered, he had the appearance of a lost and bewildered man-child. Which was pretty much the case, Jude reflected.
"Coffee?" asked Jude, already running the water and pouring out the coagulated pancake of yesterday's grinds from the filter cup.
"No."
Jude set the coffee going, cupped his hands under the cold water and splashed some onto his face. He looked for the dish towel to dry off and then saw it over on the counter, crumpled up with a pile of Skyler's hair sticking out. He used a paper towel instead. Then he took four aspirin.
"Well, I see you're not a morning person," Jude said. "Funny thing, neither am I."
Skyler looked at him, but remained silent.
"Okay, have it your way," said Jude.
He cooked them a large breakfast of orange juice, toast, bacon and sunnyside-up eggs. Again, Skyler ate hungrily, though not quite as slovenly as the night before,
and when he finished, he carried his plate streaked with egg yolk over to the sink and sat back down at the table.
"I want you to know..." he began haltingly. "I mean, I'm grateful for all this, for the food, for the bed. I just don't know..."
He trailed off and looked away.
"I just don't know what to do. Where to go. I don't have any idea... how I am going to live."
Jude looked at him. Skyler's voice had a slight trembling to it. Jude thought that his own voice caught in the same way when he was upset.
"Now, c'mon," said Jude. His hangover had abated, and in its place he felt a light-headedness. "You don't have to worry. No one's going to hurt you. I'll see to that. We're in this together."
He wasn't convinced all that was true, but he thought it would make Skyler feel better. He could see that he was getting more and more upset.
Skyler gripped him on the arm and squeezed, so tightly that his fingers dug into the muscle of his forearm. When Jude looked up, he saw that Skyler's chest was heaving up and down, though no sound was coming from him.
"C'mon. What's the matter?"
As soon as he said it, he thought it sounded fatuous, but it seemed to strike a chord in Skyler.
"I just don't understand what's going on."
"Well, I can't blame you. I don't understand, either. And I have to say, it's one major shock to come home and find a twin in your hallway."
"Who is that woman in the picture?"
"Picture?"
"The one by your bed. Who is the woman?"
Skyler was still gripping Jude's arm, holding on as if for dear life.
"She's my girlfriend. Her name's Tizzie."
Now Jude was confused.
"Why?"
Skyler didn't answer; he just looked away and let go of Jude's arm.
"Listen, you don't even have to meet her. But don't worry, you can trust her. She comes here sometimes."
A new thought occurred.
"Jesus Christ. I don't know what the hell I'm going to tell her."
Skyler stood up and started pacing around the kitchen. Neither of them spoke for a while. Eventually, Jude, as host and man of the world, felt it was incumbent upon himself to come up with a plan of action. He moved into the living room and motioned to Skyler to follow him.
"First thing we do," he said. "is we've got to find you a place. It's not safe for you to be out wandering the streets, and it's probably not a good idea for you to stay here."
He walked over to stand beside the blinds with his back to the wall and lifted them with two fingers to peer out. There seemed to be nothing unusual on the street.
"Pretty soon we'll have more Orderlies around here than a god-damned hospital."
He sat Skyler on the couch and talked to him in a tone that was slightly patronizing.
"Soon I'm going to go out and find a place, nothing fancy. You stay here and don't move. Whatever you do, don't answer the phone. If somebody comes to the door and knocks, don't answer it. Understand?"
Skyler nodded.
"You look horrible. I'll bet you didn't sleep all night. I'm going to give you some pills—they're sleeping pills—and I want you to take one. No more than one. It won't hurt you, it'll just put you to sleep. But first, you've gotta get cleaned up. Take a bath. You know how to shave?"
Again, Skyler nodded.
Minutes later, Skyler was standing in the bathroom. As Jude had instructed, he had deposited his old clothes in a plastic bag to be thrown out. Some new clothes, Jude's, were piled on a chair. Hot water was running in the tub, and the mirror before him was steamed over. He tugged at his beard with the razor; it was tough going and he cut himself two or three times, but eventually he got it off, watching as the bits of black hair and shaving cream swirled down the drain. He wiped the mirror with the palm of his hand and looked at his reflection.
Jude had been right about one thing—he had been up all night. How could he possibly have slept after his discovery?
He was hopelessly, totally confused. Once he had begun to talk to Jude, after the frightening encounter in the stairwell, he had gradually begun to trust him. For one thing, Jude had seemed so completely stunned when he first laid eyes on him. And then the more Skyler told him, the more he had seemed perplexed; he'd ended up sounding as much at sea as Skyler was. And as Jude was puzzling it out with him, sharing his theories and his amazement at the story of the island and the lives of the Jimminies there, Skyler had begun to feel something he hadn't anticipated—a comradeship, a sense of alliance. Maybe it was because he was so lonely and desperate. He needed Jude to be on his side if he had any chance of discovering the truth about the Lab. But Jude himself inspired some of the feeling: he did not seem to be playacting. He appeared trustworthy.
But now Skyler did not know what to think. The photograph had changed everything. Or had it? It was impossible for there to be another Julia in the world. And yet the person—Tizzie, he had called her—was a dead ringer. She looked as much like Julia as Jude looked like Skyler. But how could that be? Was the whole world peopled with doubles? Could it be that Jude was playacting after all, that he was part of some conspiracy that had killed Julia because she had learned too much and now would do away with him? He would have to be on his guard.
Skyler took off the pajamas and flung them into a corner.
He stepped into the tub and lay down. There was something else that he did not admit to in thinking about the photograph. It had shocked and saddened him, arousing memories of her. But it had also awakened something—a quickening in his pulse, a dream, a wisp of hope. There was, it seemed, someone who looked like Julia. Maybe in certain ways, impossible as it was to contemplate, she would act like her—maybe she could almost be like her.
From somewhere Skyler heard a sound, the splashing of water on a tiled floor.
Jude lay on his bed, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He had put on a little charade for Skyler to give him a gift of hope. He had pretended that he had a plan of action, so that they could at least believe that they were doing something. But truth be told, he didn't have the vaguest idea of what to do or where to turn. This was the damnedest thing he had ever heard of.
He would have to take it step by step, figure things out one at a time. He would have to play this chess game by instinct, to move the pawns at the start and worry later about the endgame. First, it was important to get Skyler out of harm's way. He would probably need a disguise of some sort. Jude wondered: would Skyler be more in danger or less in danger if he looked like him?
Maybe he should reach out for help. Sooner or later, Tizzie would have to know. On impulse he dialed her number, but there was no answer. Still out of town, wherever she was. Her message voice sounded coldly formal, and he left just his name on the machine.
It was when he was hanging up the phone that he heard something—the sound of water splashing.
Jesus Christ. The guy's a real hick—he can't take a bath without overflowing the tub.
Jude ran over and flung open the door. The tub was overflowing, and Skyler was turning off the faucets. When he finished, he lay back and stretched out in the tub.
Then it was Jude's turn to be puzzled. For he noticed something on Skyler's body, a little blue mark on the inside of his right thigh. He pointed toward it.
"What the hell is that?" he asked.
"That's our mark. We all have them."
"We?"
"The Jimminies."
Jude looked at the mark more closely. It was a little larger than a quarter, and it was a curious design; it looked like two babies facing each other, joined at the hands.
"Holy shit," exclaimed Jude, actually raising one hand in a gesture of astonishment. "It's a tattoo. Someone gave you a tattoo."
He stared at Skyler.
"And you don't mean Jimminy. You mean Gemini."
¨
Jude was speeding across the Tappan Zee Bridge. The car was moving so fast that the steel supports of the span flickered in th
e light like an old black-and-white movie. The Hudson below winded off to the north as far as the eye could see, and sails dotted the blue water, white commas.
His mind was racing. None of it made sense. The mark on Skyler's thigh was clearly significant, and the fact that he and the other members of his "Age Group"—whatever that was—called themselves "Gemini" was also significant. What that significance was, Jude couldn't say. But the mark had triggered an association. Was it a coincidence? Or could the victim in Tylerville have been carrying a similar mark on his thigh? A mark that someone—the killer—felt compelled to obliterate? It seemed that the mystery was widening and deepening at the same time.
At least the clue gave him something to do, a starting point. As a reporter, as someone whose job was based on digging out truths that others didn't want exposed, that's what he needed—a starting point. Now that he was on the trail, he would follow it like a tracker, taking care to pick up more clues and avoid the wrong ones. He would stay the course until it led him to a dead end or to paydirt.
For the moment, he was flying. His destination was New Paltz. The room for Skyler could wait. This was more important.
His first move, after Skyler was cleaned up and wearing a presentable pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt, had been to place a phone call. He'd done it from his kitchen, so that Skyler wouldn't hear. It wasn't that Jude distrusted him. He simply felt that at this point, until things became a little clearer, the less Skyler knew, the better.
"Special Ops," the secretary answered.
Jude gave his name. This time, almost a minute passed before Raymond picked up.
"Hey, kid, how you doing?"
"Good. You?"
"Fine. Just fine."
Jude was making an effort to flatten his voice, to drain it of any sense of urgency, and he had the feeling that Raymond was doing the same thing.
"So I'm just checking in. Still following up that murder in New Paltz. I wondered if you got anywhere—if you were able to get an ID on the victim."
"Shit, yeah. It just came in. I should of called you. I meant to, but you know how it is—I've been busy."
