Brain Child

by John Saul

  “By the time I know what’s happened, Alex will probably be home,” Marsh replied. Then he relented. “But I’ll have someone call. With any luck, I’ll be back in an hour myself.”

  Then he was gone, and Ellen sank slowly onto the sofa to wait.

  “Jesus Christ,” Sergeant Roscoe Finnerty whispered as the spotlight on his patrol car illuminated the wreckage at the bottom of the ravine. “Why the fuck didn’t it burn?” Grabbing his flashlight, he got out of the car and started clambering down the slope, with his partner, Thomas Jefferson Jackson, right behind him. A few yards away, Finnerty saw a shape move, and trained his light on the frightened face of a teenage boy.

  “Far enough, son,” Finnerty said quietly. “Whatever’s happened, we’ll take care of it.”

  “But—” the boy began.

  “You heard him,” Jackson broke in. “Get back up on the road, and stay out of the way.” He flashed his light on the knot of teenagers who were clustered together. Most of them had wet hair, and their clothes were in disarray. “Those your friends?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Musta been some party. Now, get up there with them, and we’ll talk to you later.”

  Silently the boy turned and started back up the hill, and Jackson followed Finnerty down toward the wreckage. Behind him, he heard car doors slamming, and the sound of voices issuing orders. Vaguely he became aware of other people beginning to move down the slope of the ravine.

  The car lay on its side, so battered its make was no longer recognizable. It appeared to have turned end for end at least twice, then rolled until it came to rest against a large boulder.

  “The driver’s still in it,” Jackson heard Finnerty say, and his stomach lurched the way it always did when he had to deal with the victims of automobile accidents. Stoically he moved forward.

  “Still alive?”

  “Dunno,” Finnerty grunted. “Don’t hardly see how he can be, though.” He paused then, well aware of his partner’s weak stomach. “You okay?”

  “I’ll throw up later,” Jackson muttered. “Anybody else in the car?”

  “Nope. But if someone wasn’t wearing a seat belt, they’d have gone out on the first flip.” He shone his light briefly on Jackson’s sweating face. “You wanna help out here, or look around for another victim?”

  “I’ll help. ’Least till the medics get here.” He approached the car and stared in at the body that was pitched forward against the steering wheel. The head was covered with blood, and it looked to Jackson as if Finnerty was right—if the smashup itself hadn’t killed the driver, he must have bled to death by now. Still, he had his job to do, and clenching his teeth, Jackson began helping his partner cut through the seat belt that held the inert body into what was left of the car.

  “Don’t move him,” one of the emergency technicians warned a moment later. He and his partner began unfolding a stretcher as the two cops finished cutting away the seat belt.

  “You think we haven’t done this before?” Finnerty rasped. “Anyway, I don’t think it’ll make much difference with this one.”

  “We’ll decide that,” the EMT replied, moving forward and edging Jackson aside. “Anybody know who he is?”

  “Not yet,” Jackson told him. “We’ll run a make on the plate as soon as we get him up to the road.”

  The two EMT’s slowly and carefully began working Alex’s body out of the wreckage, and, what seemed to Jackson to be an eternity later, eased him onto the stretcher.

  “He’s not dead yet,” one of the EMT’s muttered. “But he will be if we don’t get him out of here fast. Come on.”

  With a man at each corner of the stretcher, the two EMT’s and the two cops began making their way up the hill.

  The crowd of teenagers on the road stood silently watching as the stretcher was borne upward. In the midst of them, Lisa Cochran leaned heavily on Kate Lewis, who did her best to keep Lisa from looking at the bloodied shape of Alex Lonsdale.

  “He must still be alive,” Bob Carey whispered. “They’ve got something wrapped around his head, but his face isn’t covered.”

  Then the medics were on the road, sliding the stretcher into the ambulance. A second later, its lights flashing and its siren screaming, it roared off into the night.

  In the emergency room of the Medical Center, a bell shattered the tense silence, and a scratchy voice emanated from a speaker on the wall.

  “This is Unit One. We’ve got a white male, teenage, with multiple lacerations of the face, a broken arm, damage to the rib cage, and head injuries. Also extensive bleeding.”

  Marshall Lonsdale reached across the desk and pressed the transmission key himself. “Any identification yet?”

  “Negative. We’re too busy keeping him alive to check his I.D.”

  “Will he make it?”

  There was a slight hesitation; then: “We’ll know in two minutes. We’re at the bottom of Hacienda, turning into La Paloma Drive.”

  Thomas Jefferson Jackson sat in the passenger seat of the patrol car, waiting for the identification of the car that lay at the bottom of the ravine. He glanced out the window and saw Roscoe Finnerty talking to the group of kids whose party had just ended in tragedy. He was glad he didn’t have to talk to them—he doubted whether he would have been able to control the rage that seethed in him. Why couldn’t they have just had a dance and let it go at that? Why did they have to get drunk and start wrecking cars? He wasn’t sure he’d ever understand what motivated them. All he’d do was go on getting sick when they piled themselves up.

  “It was Alex Lonsdale,” Bob Carey said, unable to meet Sergeant Finnerty’s eyes.

  “Dr. Lonsdale’s kid?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure he was driving it?”

  “Lisa Cochran saw it happen.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Alex’s girlfriend. She’s over there.”

  Finnerty followed Bob’s eyes and saw a pretty blond in a dirt-smeared green formal sobbing in the arms of another girl. He knew he should go over and talk to her, but decided it could wait—from what he could see, she didn’t look too coherent.

  “You know where she lives?” he asked Bob Carey. Numbly Bob recited Lisa’s address, which Finnerty wrote in his notebook. “Wait here a minute.” He strode to the car just as Jackson was opening the door.

  “Got a make on the car,” Jackson said. “Belongs to Alexander Lonsdale. That’s Dr. Lonsdale’s son, isn’t it?”

  Finnerty nodded grimly. “That’s what the kids say, too, and apparently the boy was driving it. We got a witness, but I haven’t talked to her yet.” He tore the sheet with Lisa’s address on it out of his notebook and handed it to Jackson. “Here’s her name and address. Get hold of her parents and tell them we’ll take the girl down to the Center. We’ll meet them there.”

  Jackson looked at his partner uncertainly. “Shouldn’t we take her to the station and get a statement?”

  “This is La Paloma, Tom, not San Francisco. The kid in the car was her boyfriend, and she’s pretty broken up. We’re not gonna make things worse by dragging her into the station. Now, get hold of the Center and tell them who’s coming in, then get hold of these Cochran people. Okay?”

  Jackson nodded and got back in the car.

  Lisa sat on the ground, trying to accept what had happened. It all had a dreamlike quality to it, and there seemed to be only bits and pieces left in her memory.

  Standing in the road, trying to make up her mind whether or not to go back to the party and find Alex.

  And then the sound of a car.

  Instinctively, she’d known whose car it was, and her anger had suddenly evaporated.

  And then she’d realized the car was coming too fast. She’d turned around to try to wave Alex down.

  And then the blur.

  The car rushing toward her, swerving away at the last minute, then only a series of sounds.

  A shriek of skidding tires—

  A scraping noi
se—

  A crash—

  And then the awful sound of Alex screaming her name, cut off by the horrible crunching of the car hurtling into the ravine.

  Then nothing—just a blank, until suddenly she was back at Carolyn Evans’s, and all the kids were staring at her, their faces blank and confused.

  She hadn’t even been able to tell them what had happened. She’d only been able to scream Alex’s name, and point toward the road.

  It had been Bob Carey who had finally understood and called the police.

  And then there had been more confusion.

  People scrambling out of the pool, grabbing clothes, streaming out of the house.

  Most of them running down the road.

  A few cars starting.

  And Carolyn Evans, her eyes more furious than frightened, glaring at her.

  “It’s your fault,” Carolyn had accused. “It’s all your fault, and now I’m going to be in trouble.”

  Lisa had gazed at her: what was she talking about?

  “My parents,” Carolyn had wailed. “They’ll find out, and ground me for the rest of the summer.”

  And then Kate Lewis was beside her, pulling her away.

  Suddenly she was back on Hacienda Drive, and the night was filled with sirens, and flashing lights, and people everywhere, asking her questions, staring down into the ravine.…

  It had seemed to go on forever.

  Finally there was that awful moment when the stretcher had appeared, and she’d seen Alex—

  Except it hadn’t been Alex.

  It had only been a shape covered by a blanket.

  She’d only been able to look for a second, then Kate had twisted her around, and she hadn’t seen any more.

  Now a voice penetrated the haze.

  “Lisa? Lisa Cochran?”

  She looked up, nodding mutely. A policeman was looking at her, but he didn’t seem to be mad at her.

  “We need to get you out of here,” the policeman said. “We have to take you down to the Medical Center.” He held out a hand. “Can you stand up?”

  “I … I …” Lisa struggled to rise, then sank back to the ground. Strong hands slid under her arms and lifted her up. A minute later she was in the back seat of a police car. A few yards away she saw another police car, and a policeman talking to some of her friends.

  But they didn’t know what had happened. Only she knew.

  Lisa buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

  The speaker on the wall of the emergency room crackled to life once again.

  “This is Unit One,” the anonymous voice droned. “We’ll be there in another thirty seconds. And we have an identification on the victim.” Suddenly the voice cracked, losing its professional tone. “It’s Alex … Alex Lonsdale.”

  Marsh stared at the speaker, willing himself to have heard the words wrong. Then he gazed around the room, and knew by the shock on everyone’s face, and by the way they were returning his gaze, that he had not heard wrong. He groped behind him for a chair, found one, and lowered himself into it.

  “No,” he whispered. “Not Alex. Anyone but Alex …”

  “Call Frank Mallory,” Barbara Fannon told one of the orderlies, immediately taking charge. “He’s next on call. His number’s on the Rolodex.” She moved around the desk and put a hand on Marshall Lonsdale’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s a mistake, Marsh,” she said, though she knew that the ambulance crew wouldn’t have identified Alex if they weren’t absolutely sure.

  Marsh shook his head and then raised his agonized eyes. “How am I going to tell her?” he asked, his voice dazed. “How am I going to tell Ellen? She … she had a feeling … she told me … she wanted to come with me tonight—”

  “Come on.” Barbara assumed her most authoritative tone, the one she always used with people she knew were close to breaking. Outside, the sound of the approaching ambulance disturbed the night. “We’re getting you out of here.” When Marsh failed to respond, she took him by the hand and drew him to his feet. “I’m taking you to your office.”

  “No!” Marsh protested as the approaching siren grew louder. “Alex is my son—”

  “Which is exactly why you won’t be here when they bring him in. We’ll have Frank Mallory here as soon as possible, and until he gets here, Benny Cohen knows what to do.”

  Marsh looked dazed. “Benny’s only an intern—”

  Barbara began steering him out of the emergency room as the siren fell silent and headlights glared momentarily through the glass doors of the emergency entrance. “Benny’s the best intern we’ve ever had. You told me so yourself.”

  Then, as the emergency-room doors opened and the gurney bearing Alex Lonsdale’s nearly lifeless body was pushed inside, she forced Marsh Lonsdale into the corridor.

  “Go to your office,” she told him. “Go to your office and mix yourself a drink from the bottle you and Frank nip at every time you deliver a baby. I can take care of everything else, but right now I can’t take care of you. Understand?”

  Marsh swallowed, then nodded. “I’ll call Ellen—”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Barbara cut in. “You’ll fix a drink, drink it, and wait. I’ll be there in five minutes, and by then we’ll know something about how he is. Now, go!” She gave Marsh a gentle shove, then disappeared back into the emergency room.

  Marsh paused a moment, trying to sort out his thoughts.

  He knew that Barbara was right.

  With a shambling gait, feeling suddenly helpless, he started down the hall toward his office.

  In the little house behind the old mission, across the street from the graveyard, María Torres dropped the blind on the front window back into place, then shuffled slowly into the bedroom and eased her aged body into bed.

  She was tired from the long walk home, and tonight it had been particularly exhausting.

  Unwilling to be seen by anyone that night, María had been forced to make her way down the canyon by way of the path that wound through the underbrush a few feet below the level of the road. Each time she had heard the wailing of a siren and seen headlights flashing on the road above, she had huddled close to the ground, waiting until the car had passed before once more making her slow progress toward home.

  But now it was all right.

  She was home, and no one had seen her, and her job was safe.

  Tonight she had no trouble. Tonight it was the gringos who had the trouble.

  To María Torres, what had happened on the road near the hacienda tonight was nothing less than a blessing from the saints. All her life, she had spent many hours each week praying that destruction would come to the gringos. Tonight, she knew, was one of the nights the saints had chosen to answer those prayers.

  Tomorrow, or the next day, she would find out who had been in the car that had plunged over the edge of the ravine, and remember to go to church and light a candle to whichever saint had, in answer to her prayers, abandoned one of his namesakes this evening. Her candles were not much, she knew, but they were something, and the souls of her ancestors would appreciate them.

  Silence finally fell over La Paloma. For the rest of the night, María Torres slept in peace.

  Benny Cohen carefully peeled away the towel that had been wrapped around Alex Lonsdale’s head, and stared at the gaping wound on the boy’s skull.

  He’s dead, Benny thought. He may still be breathing, but he’s dead.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ellen Lonsdale knew her premonition had come true as soon as she opened the front door and saw Carol Cochran standing on the porch, a handkerchief clutched in her left hand, her eyes rimmed with red.

  “It happened, didn’t it?” she whispered.

  Carol’s head moved in a barely perceptible nod. “It’s Alex,” she whispered. “He … he was alone in the car …”

  “Alone?” Ellen echoed. Where had Lisa been? Hadn’t she been with Alex? But her questions went unspoken as she tried to concentrate on what Carol was saying.

&nb
sp; “He’s at the Center,” Carol told her, stepping into the house and closing the door behind her. “I’ll take you.”

  For a moment Ellen felt as if she might collapse. Then, with an oddly detached calmness, she picked her purse up from the table in the entry hall and automatically opened it to check its contents. Satisfied that everything was there, she walked past Carol and opened the front door. “Is he dead?” she asked.

  “No,” Carol replied, her voice catching. “He’s not dead, Ellen.”

  “But it’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does.”

  Silently the two women got into the Cochrans’ car and Carol started the engine. As she was backing down the Lonsdales’ driveway, Ellen asked the question that was still lurking in her mind. “Why wasn’t Lisa with him?”

  “I don’t know that. We got a call from the police. They said to meet them at the Center, that they were taking Lisa there. I thought … Oh, God, never mind what I thought. Anyway, Lisa’s all right, but Alex—his car went off the road up near the old hacienda. Carolyn was having a party.”

  “He said he wouldn’t go to any parties,” Ellen said numbly, her body slumped against the car door. “He promised—” She broke off her own thought, and remained silent for several seconds as her mind suddenly began to shift gears. I can’t fall apart. I can’t give in to what I’m feeling. I have to be strong. For Alex, I have to be strong. She consciously straightened herself in the car seat. “Well, it doesn’t matter what he promised, does it?” she asked. “The only thing that matters is that he be all right.” She turned to gaze searchingly at Carol, and when she spoke, her voice was stronger. “If you knew how bad it was, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  Carol moved her hand off the steering wheel to give Ellen’s arm a quick squeeze. “Of course I would. And I’m not going to tell you not to worry, either.”