F Wilson - Sibs

How Jill had loved Kelly, and Kelly, Jill. The two of them, separated by more than twenty years, would whisper and share secrets like two sisters, just as Kara and Kelly had when they were kids.

So many memories. What relationship, what life-sharing could be more intimate than that of identical twins? Kelly and Kara Wade had dressed alike, braided their long blond hair alike, had even played the traditional tricks of pretending to be the other.

She smiled as she remembered the time at the local county fair when they had driven one of the Little Miss Lancaster judges to distraction by taking turns showing up wherever he went. They shared the award that year.

They had grown apart during these last years of separation, of living in different states, but on the occasions they got together, it was as if they had never been apart.

Kara had always assumed she'd know instantly if something awful happened to Kelly. Wasn't there supposed to be a psychic link between identical twins? But Tuesday she had gone to bed early and had spent the night in a sound sleep. Kelly had plummeted through more than a hundred feet of cold air, screaming all the way, had had the life smashed out of her on the filthy pavement below without causing the slightest ripple in Kara's slumber.

It didn't seem right.

But then, nothing about this whole thing seemed right.

Kara picked up the list of Kelly's personal effects that were being kept for evidence. She hadn't— couldn't—let Mom see this. The vial with half an ounce of cocaine was the hardest to accept, but the clothing described wasn't much easier.

… one garter belt, black… two full length stockings, black… one pair silk panties, black, slit-crotch style… one bra, black, open cup style…

Kara forced her bunched jaw muscles to relax. This could not be her sister they were talking about here. Slit-crotch panties? Bras cut so the nipples poked through? Kelly would never wear these things. She would have fallen on the floor laughing if anyone asked her to wear this garbage.

This is not my sister!

It was Kelly they had buried today, but who had Kelly become? Who had made her this way?

Kara had to know. She knew she would not rest easy until she found out.

And who had pushed Kelly through that window?

Kara hoped that, whoever they were, they were sweating and worrying about being caught. And when Rob did catch them she hoped they got sent up for a long, long stretch during which they'd be buggered by every ferocious hood on Riker's Island.

She hoped they were spending every moment of every day in sweaty, shaky, skin-crawling, heart-pounding panic.

▼

"Phil? It's me—Ed."

"Are you crazy calling me here now? Julie and Kim will be back from church any minute!"

Ed Bannion cringed at the heat of his brother's anger. He could almost see Phil's clenched teeth, the splayed fingers of his raised hand.

"I gotta talk to someone, Phil. I'm going crazy!"

"Have you been drinking?"

"I've had a few."

"It's not even six o'clock, for Christ sake! What are you going to be like in a couple of hours?"

"Asleep, if I'm lucky."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Ed looked around his five-room Upper West Side apartment. It was empty, as usual, but never had felt so alone. He had hundreds of acquaintances, people he hung out with at night and on weekends, women he dated and occasionally slept with, men he had lunch with, played squash with. He couldn't turn to any one of them. He almost wished he'd stayed active in the Church. At least then he might be able to talk to a priest.

But there was no one for him now except Phil. And Phil didn't want to talk about it.

He sat at the kitchen table. Newspapers from Wednesday, the Times, Post, News, Newsday, USA Today, early and late editions, all arrayed before him. A beautiful blonde, clad only in garter belt and stockings, crashing through a window in the Plaza Hotel to end up dead on the street below—the tabloids had eaten it up, and even the Times had given the story considerable space. The tv news shows had reviewed the victim's life but reported that the police could come up with no answers. The victim's family refused to comment, and her tearful co-workers at St. Vincent's in Greenwich Village had nothing to say except how shocked they were.

And that was it. By Thursday she wasn't even mentioned. Twenty-four hours after her dramatic death, the papers and tv news both had forgotten about Kelly Wade.

But the police hadn't—Ed was sure of that.

And neither had Ed Bannion.

"I can't sleep, Phil. Every time I close my eyes I see her going through that window. I hear her—"

"Knock it off, will you? I never knew you were such a goddam wimp!"

Images flashed before Ed's eyes—the two of them, panicked, shaking, stumbling half-dressed out into the hallway, adjusting their clothing in the stairwell, hurrying down a random number of flights and then waiting for the elevator on another floor, taking it down to the lobby and then strolling out as casually as they could amid the uproar over the "jumper" who had landed on the pavement only moments before.

It would have been funny, a scene out of a Hollywood comedy, something to laugh about later… if only it hadn't ended so horribly.

"Doesn't it bother you at all?"

Phil's voice softened. "Yeah, it bothers me. It was a hell of a thing. But we're not to blame, Ed. We didn't do anything to that Ingrid—"

"Kelly. The papers say her real name was Kelly Wade."

"Whatever. The fact remains that she went out that window on her own. Nothing we did in that room had anything to do with her taking that leap."

"I know, but—"

"But nothing!" The anger was back in Phil's voice. "What really bothers me is that I might get hauled in for questioning and have my marriage and career and reputation ruined because my brother can't stop whining about a whore with a snootful of coke who threw herself out a window!"

"You didn't see her face, Phil."

"Of course, I did!"

"Not right before she went out the window. It was—"

"Gotta go, Ed. Julie and Kim are back. Just hang in there and keep your shit together and don't do anything stupid, okay? I'll call you tomorrow."

"Phil—?"

The line was dead.

Ed hung up and reached for the vodka bottle. He poured some more over the ice in his glass. Absolut Citron. He'd never been more than a beer or wine drinker but he'd heard that the best way to get drunk without getting sick was with vodka. The slight lemony flavor of this one made it easier to swallow.

He sipped, grimacing as it went down.

But not that much easier.

He walked through the great room of his spacious condo, past the entertainment center with the stereo and giant screen tv, past the leather furniture groups. He didn't want to hear anything or watch anything, and he couldn't sit still. He stood at the picture window and looked down on Sheridan Square. How he'd reveled in owning this chic, expensive pied a terre in the Coronado, the corner of Broadway and 70th, in the heart of yuppidom. Tonight it left him cold.

"You didn't see her face, Phil," he said aloud as he watched the traffic below. "You didn't see her face."

If only he could forget how she'd looked as her head swung back and forth, staring in turn at him and his brother in those silent seconds before she ran blindly for the window; if only he could get her last expression out of his mind, maybe then he could sleep. He had only seen her face for a few seconds then, but it had differed so from the woman who had accosted them down in the bar. The face that had hovered over him for that instant had been shocked, repulsed, anguished, tortured… lost. But worst of all, utterly hopeless.

Why? Why, damn it!