Sign of Gemini
by C.D. Campbell
�Could we stop, maybe, for something to eat?� Paul asked cautiously. �Hungry?� �A little ill, actually. Your driving, Keel�� �Look Paul, you�re going to need a stronger stomach than that if you�re to pursue this line of work,� countered Alva with a twinkle in his eye. Noting Callan�s graying complexion however, he nodded and pulled over at the next diner that appeared on the horizon. Nearly falling out of the rental car, Paul pushed himself from the front seat and scampered across the tarry black expanse of the parking lot through the glinting glass doors of the building. Keel followed lackadaisically behind, taking in the scenery as he sauntered into the restaurant. He noted with humor the ostensibly random placement of the multitudinous palm trees shoved into the ground as though the trees were indigenous to the area. The architecture of the beige neo-mission-style city hall along with it�s matching civic buildings also looked as though they had been planted; an attempt by city fathers to recall times past, as though the filth and lawlessness of the old west were somehow better than present day. �Perhaps it was,� Keel thought to himself, remembering with a shudder certain things he wished to forget. The greasy odor of slightly burnt French fries and undercooked eggs assaulted Alva as he entered the eatery. Risking the worst, he took up a booth and ordered coffee, hoping it would be at least, easy to swallow. The false seeming light of the California sun sliced through the windows falling on the note pad he pulled from his attach� case. The rays illuminated the words, �twins�, �inexplicable� and �Thursday�. �Better now?� he inquired as Paul came up and eased himself into the booth. Sheepishly, Paul lowered his head and murmured, �Yeah,� as he picked up a menu from the dingy Formica-topped table. �Are you going to order something to eat?� �I�m not sure if I should.� �It could be a very long afternoon. You might as well,� Keel guided. Paul nodded noncommittally. �How�s the coffee?� �Bile in disguise,� responded Alva, smiling. Paul smiled back, �We better keep going, then.� �������������������������. The Naughton family lived in a large adobe villa at the end of a cul-de-sac. Thoughtfully manicured trees and bushes of various green tones encircled the rose-tinted house. Under an inviting arched entry, a narrow brick path led to the front door. Paul took the thick wrought iron loop attached to the door between his fingers and pushed it repeatedly against the wood. Keel stood anxiously beside him. From inside they heard child-like laughter and a barking dog. Paul turned to his co-worker and raised his eyebrows good-naturedly. He received a stoical stare in return. �You know, if you lightened up just a little,� Paul began. The unbolting of the door interrupted his speech. A tawny haired woman of about thirty-five stood in the doorframe. �Can I help you?� �Mrs. Naughton?� Keel asked, putting forward his hand for her to shake. �Hello. My name is Alva Keel. This is my associate, Paul Callan. We talked on the phone.� �Yes,� said the woman nervously. She looked over her shoulder, back into the house. Paul followed the woman�s gaze. �Is this a bad time?� �No,� she replied hastily, looking back to her visitors. �No, not at all. Come in.� She forced a smile onto her lips. Her strained expression made Paul uncomfortable, but he followed without protest as Keel officiously strode past the woman into her hall. �The kitchen,� she said haltingly. �We should talk in the kitchen.� The words had come but the woman did not move. She was cemented to the terra-cotta tiles lining the entryway. Alva put his hand on the woman�s elbow. �This way?� he asked, gently engaging her. Yet again, Paul found himself surprised by Keel�s intuitive nature. The former priest had presented the question in such a subtle, soft manner- with two simple words extending compassion and helpfulness to the obviously uncertain woman. Suddenly Paul was ashamed of his attempted diatribe at the front door. The kitchen was a room surrounded almost entirely by windows that looked out onto a natural desert landscape. Mrs. Naughton motioned to a rustic looking pine dining table with a hodge-podge of chairs surrounding it. �Can I get you anything?� �Water, please,� Paul requested almost apologetically. �Coffee,� said Keel. �You just can�t get enough, can you?� Paul whispered as the woman turned away from them. Keel tried to hide his grin by biting his bottom lip, but an undeniable twitching at the corners of his mouth gave him away. �Have to stay on my toes,� he answered. �Mrs. Naughton,� he said raising his voice, �what can you tell us about your delivery?� She had been crossing the kitchen as the question was asked, and Paul was sure he had seen her stumble slightly on hearing it, but when Mrs. Naughton handed him his glass of water, it showed no signs of having almost spilt. �Thank you,� Keel said as she handed him a porcelain white mug full of steaming black coffee. The writing on the side read �#1 Dad� in cartoonish red letters, meant to resemble crayon. �Now then, you were delivered of a 7lb. 4oz. Girl Thursday the 20th, is that correct?� Mrs. Naughton nodded as she slipped vacantly into one of the chairs. �And all went well? No fainting spells? Gaps in memory?� �No, nothing different than when I had my first child.� Her tone was defensive and her eyes had lost the glazed over look. Paul cringed as Alva quietly scribbled in his notepad and responded to the fragile mother only by saying �Hmm.� �Is this all right, Mrs. Naughton?� Paul blurted out. Both the mother and Keel looked up curiously at Paul. Their stares obliged his own gaze to falter, but he had felt the need to show the alarmed woman some humanity, not just assail her with point blank questions regarding a difficult situation. He looked up again, expecting to see some sign of thankfulness in her, but her features had gone blank as if she had not understood his question. Keel cleared his throat and continued his examination. �And the mark on the child? �I don�t know, exactly,� replied the woman. �I couldn�t make anything out of it when I saw it, but someone, I can�t recall who now, said that it was a word. In Latin.� She laughed nervously. �Is that possible? For a birthmark to look like a word?� �A great many things are possible Mrs. Naughton.� Keel attended to his notebook again. This time Paul remained silent. At last Alva looked up. �May we see the child?� �I�I don�t�� The mother was clearly distressed by the suggestion. She sprang up from the chair, hitting her knee on the underside of the table, but the pain did not appear to affect her. Without hesitation she sped to barricade the passageway to her baby. �We don�t mean any harm, Mrs. Naughton,� Paul said slowly rising from the table. Alva remained seated sensing that his movement above all could cause further disturbance. �We only want to take a picture of the mark. We won�t even touch her. I promise. Look, I�ll give you the camera. You can take the picture yourself. We don�t even have to see her. Okay?� Dully, the mother consented and shoved her hand out to accept the camera. Paul nudged Keel, who with deliberate movements rummaged through his attach� case for the Polaroid. Momentarily he handed it to Paul who in turn placed it into Mrs. Naughton�s trembling hand. A sound seemed to be coming from her that was tantamount to whimpering. �What is she so afraid of?� Paul wondered. �Did you hear that?� he asked Keel after the woman left the room. Keel gnawed on his upper lip and nodded. �What was it about, do you think?� �I think we may find out when we see that mark.� In a few moments, Mrs. Naughton returned. She seemed relieved as she handed the camera back to Paul along with the slowly developing photo. �I�ll walk you out,� she said. Returned to the rental car, the two men took turns peering at the Polaroid picture. The fleshy peach skin of the baby�s arm was the prevailing feature of the photo, but to the left, near the child�s shoulder was a purple-black blur, an oblong discoloration fading to wispy gray tendrils at the edges. �It looks like a bruise or something,� commented Paul. �Indeed.� There was doubt in Keel�s voice. �What?� asked Paul. �We need to see that other child.� Keel gunned the motor of the idling car and pulled swiftly out of the drive as Paul nervously rubbed his head, closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. ������������������������������ Rebecca Grace, the mother of the identical twin lived nearly half an hour from the Naughton�s on the east end of town in an extravagant two-bedroom condo in a recently constructed set of buildings. Clearly less agitated than Mrs. Naughton had been, the auburn haired single mother had happily allowed the men into her home. �You�re not exactly the first to come by,� she said smiling coquettishly at Paul. �It�s not like its big news, but a bunch of doctors have been more than averagely interested. I don�t really think that other baby looks that much like Maia, but you know, maybe that�s just a mother�s partiality.� �You�ve seen the alleged twin?� Keel inquired. Rebecca Grace grinned and responded flippantly. �Oh yeah. The other mother, what�s-her-name, Naughton or something, she wasn�t too thrilled with the idea. Seemed a little freaked, actually, but I wasn�t going to just hide my kid away and pretend everything was normal. I wanted to see what the fuss was about. Have a seat, guys.� Paul immediately chose a plump chair by the door, but Alva remained standing, the wheels in his head spinning so fast, Paul wondered why he couldn�t hear an audible clicking coming from his co-workers head. �Did you see the mark on the other baby, Ms. Grace?� he asked. Ms. Grace smiled again at Paul. �The butterfly thing, yeah. I guess they do match. I don�t see what�s the big, though. Lots of people are born with funky birthmarks.� �Ms. Grace, would you allow us to see your daughter?� petitioned Keel. The animated woman shrugged. �Sure.� They followed the mother to a cheerily decorated room. Rebecca stood in the doorway and motioned to a butter-colored crib pushed against a corner. Within it, lay a sleeping baby, delicate breathing noises emanating from its tranquil shape and a white cotton blanket sprinkled with ducks and shamrocks covering its miniature body. Keel glanced at Paul out of the corner of his eye and as if that were the agreed upon signal, both men stealthily approached the crib. They paused at the edge, peering over the rail. �Is this okay?� Paul whispered to Rebecca. �Maybe we should wait until she�s awake.� He sensed that somehow Keel agreed with him, but the mother was unconcerned. �It�s no problem,� she told them. �Sleeps like a log, that baby. You always hear how they�re light sleepers and up every two hours and all that; but not my Maia. Go ahead.� Paul looked at Keel, who raised his eyebrows and nodded, indicating that Paul should indeed �go ahead�. He lowered his hand into the crib, first pulling back the blanket and then gingerly raising the short sleeve on the baby girl�s right arm to expose her plump shoulder and the oblong ebony blotch. �Covet,� Paul whispered. �Well, yes that�s one way to interpret it, I suppose,� acquiesced Keel. �You suppose? It says �covet�, Keel.� Paul let his hand drift away from the baby�s skin Tensely, Keel fought to keep his voice at a whisper. �Look, I don�t want to argue about it, Paul. It could mean covet, but it could also mean �need� or �want� or �desire�. Hieroglyphs aren�t always as easy as�� Confusion filtered over Paul�s face. �It�s in English, Keel.� �Oh dear.� Alva bent closer to the sleeping baby girl. The fragrance of baby powder and plastic wafted toward him. �You mean to tell me you see the word �covet� in English on this child�s arm?� �Yeah.� �Problem, guys?� asked Rebecca Grace from the doorway. �Not at all.� Keel�s voice was pleasant but his face remained unreadable. �Butterfly. Thank you for your time, Ms. Grace.� He shook the confused woman�s hand and quickly left the apartment, Paul trailing behind. �Well that was interesting,� Keel said unlocking the car door. �You didn�t see what I saw.� It was more a statement than a question. �Eh, no,� answered the Brit sliding behind the driver�s seat and slamming his door. Shaking his head, Paul followed suit, climbing reluctantly back into the passenger�s seat. �What�s going on, Keel?� �That�s the newest question, isn�t it?� Alva looked out the window. �Eye of the beholder, Paul. Something is making us see what it wants us to see. Mrs. Naughton said someone told her that the mark was Latin, however to her it didn�t look like letters at all; Rebecca Grace said it looked to her like a butterfly. In the car, the photo, we saw what looked to be a bruise; and now you see English and I see a hieroglyph.� Keel put his finger up to his partially open mouth, tapping the tip lightly against his lips. �Something is trying to get a message through.� �Or someone,� murmured Paul. Keel turned angrily to his passenger. �No!� he said rather violently. �This is not someone. Keep that clear, Paul.� �Okay,� Paul put up his hands as if surrendering. His left eyelid twitched involuntarily. Cautiously he ventured to ask, �What now?� Alva pursed his lips, reached behind Paul�s seat and retrieved his attach� case. He pulled out his notebook and a regional map. �Baby Grace was delivered at St. Augustine�s hospital. That�s not too far, according to the map. We should find out what he saw.� �Oh good, more driving,� replied Paul under his breath. ������������������������. �Gentleman, I really can�t help you. Doctor patient confidentiality.� Keel nodded. �I understand that doctor, but all we want is to know about the birthmark on the child.� The obstetrician shifted his weight from foot to foot and gathered his stethoscope from atop a pile of file folders. Refusing to look the investigators in the eye he shook his head. �I�m sorry,� he said walking around the desk and out the door. Dissatisfied, Keel grunted and gritted his teeth. �Why can�t people answer simple questions?� he complained. He moved to follow the doctor into the busy hospital corridor. Behind him, Paul began rummaging through the files. �Keel,� Paul summoned frantically. He was standing to the side of the desk looking down, his thumb and forefinger squeezing a slightly ragged file between them. �It�s the Grace file.� Alva instinctively turned his attention to the hallway and carefully closed the door. He paused and took in a deep breath before dashing across the linoleum floor to Paul�s side. The crisp white pages crackled slightly as Paul turned them, searching for some indication about the birthmark. �Stop!� Keel barked suddenly. His finger shot out, hit the page and slid down about halfway. �Damn,� he said softly. Paul scanned the information Keel had fingered. �Artificial insemination,� he read aloud. �This could mean the girls are from the same father, but still�� �Doesn�t explain the mark or the fact that girls appear to be identical.� Keel moved to the door. �However, I�m not sure that matters anymore.� �So what, we�re just giving up?� �Everything that comes along is not a battle, Paul. There�s nothing to give up on. We�ve been presented with information and now we take it, we store it away and use it if the time comes.� Irritated, Paul shook the closed folder at Keel. �Another file, Keel? To store away in the endless cabinets in a dank office space. Come on. Don�t you want to find the answer? Aren�t you curious?� Alva opened the door and stepped into the hallway. �There isn�t always an answer, Paul. Sometimes the things we come across are simply a marker along the path.� �So that�s it?� Keel rubbed at the back of his neck. �That�s it.�
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