Part 25 (1/2)

”Yesterday,” Melinda said. ”I'll be leaving next week myself.”

”Same school as your brother?”

”No,” Melinda said, ”but nearby.”

”Are you two very close?” Reardon asked hesitantly.

”Yes. Very. We're twins, you know.” She seemed proud of that fact.

”Yes, I know.”

Melinda smiled. ”We're duplicates, practically,” she said enthusiastically. ”When we were younger and we had to sign something, you know jointly, like a wedding or Christmas card from both of us, we wouldn't sign our names separately.”

”You wouldn't?”

”No,” Melinda said, ”we'd just sign with the number *two.'”

Reardon had not expected anything like this so quickly. ”With a digit?” he asked.

”Sometimes,” Melinda said, ”or sometimes with the number written out, sometimes in a foreign language.”

”Or a roman numeral?”

”Sure,” Melinda said. ”That was Dwight's favorite.”

Reardon peered over Melinda's shoulder to the empty cage of the fallow deer. The long thin shadows from the bars fell slantwise across its floor. The chalk marks were beginning to fade. ”When did your father give you the deer?”

”Three years ago. It was our birthday.”

”And not quite two years ago he donated them to the Children's Zoo in your name.”

”In both our names.” Melinda looked at Reardon quizzically. ”Why all these questions?”

”You and Dwight are very close, you say?” Reardon asked. He was stalling, and he knew it.

”Yes,” Melinda said, ”very close.”

Reardon nodded. He was not sure what to do next. He was not sure that Melinda was prepared to go to the place he knew he had to take her.

”What is this all about?” she asked again. ”Reardon, the mysterious detective.” Jokingly she deepened her voice. ”Does the Shadow know?”

”Do you know who killed the fallow deer?” Reardon asked bluntly.

Melinda grimaced. ”No,” she said emphatically, ”I don't.” She laughed, but she could not conceal her distress. ”Do you know who killed them?” she asked tauntingly.

”We have a witness,” Reardon said quietly. ”We have a woman who saw the man who killed the deer.”

”Well, who did it?” Melinda asked excitedly. ”No more phony mystery. Who killed them?”

Reardon stood up. ”Melinda, I want to show you something.”

”Where?”

”Here,” Reardon replied. ”Here in the zoo. Just a little ways from here.”

”All right,” Melinda said. She stood up, putting her book away in her bag. ”This better be worth it, though. It's hard to get a seat at this bench sometimes. I wouldn't give it up for just anyone, you know.” She smiled at Reardon.

”It's just right over here,” Reardon said. He pointed to the cage of the fallow deer.

Melinda stepped back. ”No,” she said. ”I don't want to go over there.”

Reardon took her arm gently. ”It's just an empty cage now,” he said. ”It's important.” He led her forward delicately. ”Please.”

”I can't,” Melinda said. She took another step back.

Reardon still held her arm. ”Please,” he said emphatically, more like an order than a request.

”Oh, all right,” Melinda said. ”I'm a big girl now. Right?”

”Right,” Reardon said.

Together they walked through the police barricades and into the cage of the fallow deer. The chalk outlines of the bodies had faded considerably, although they were still visible beneath patches of dried leaves and litter. A sudden gust of wind rattled the tin roof of the shed, and Reardon felt Melinda's arm tremble.

”I want you to look at something,” he said.

Melinda's face was tense. ”What?”

Reardon walked toward the rear of the cage, picked up a piece of tin about a foot square and, holding it face down, brought it back to where Melinda stood.

”This is part of the deer shed,” he said. ”I asked for it to be brought back over here from the lab this morning.”

”What lab?”

”The crime lab.”

Melinda nodded fearfully. Standing within the black bars of the cage, her arms nestling her body, protecting it from the cold, she looked like an abandoned child, and Reardon wondered whether he could ever justify what he was about to do to her.

”This piece of the shed is evidence now,” he said.

”What do you mean?”

”I want to show you something, Melinda,” Reardon said tenderly. ”It may not mean anything, but I think it does.” He could see that her hand was beginning to tremble. ”I think you'll know what it means,” he said. He looked at her now as if he would never see another human face, as if Melinda Van Allen were the only person left on earth, and he, Reardon, was about to disclose a terrible thing to her that would poison her life forever.

Slowly he turned the square of tin around. Scrawled clearly on the other side, in dark red, was the roman numeral ”two.”

Melinda gasped.

”It's written in the blood of one of the deer,” Reardon said.

”Oh, no,” she said.