by John Saul
Alex frowned, then wordlessly turned and left the library. He walked home slowly, lost in thought. As he approached his house he finally made up his mind, and, though he was already tired, trudged on up Hacienda Drive.
He stopped once to rest, at the curve where only a few months ago his car had crashed through the safety barrier and plunged into the canyon below. He stayed there for nearly half an hour, searching his mind for memories of the crash.
He knew what had happened: he’d been told the details many times since he’d awakened in the hospital. There had been a party, and he and Lisa had had a quarrel, and she had left. A few minutes later he’d gone after her, but he’d been driving too fast, and had to swerve to avoid hitting her. And that was when he’d gone off the road.
But something seemed to be missing. Deep in his mind, he was sure there was one more image—a fleeting glimpse of something he couldn’t quite grasp—that was the real reason for his accident.
Somehow, he knew that there was more to it than avoiding Lisa. There had been something else—someone else—whom he had also swerved to avoid.
But who? He couldn’t bring the image into focus, couldn’t quite identify it.
Struggling to his feet, he went on toward the Evanses’ mansion and the hills beyond.
Marsh Lonsdale sat in the records office of the Medical Center and punched angrily at the keys of the computer. The screen sat like a Cyclops on the desk in front of him. There were times, of course, when he thanked all the various gods he could think of for the computer system that had been put in the Center five years earlier, but there were times—and this was one of them—when he wished that the microprocessor had never been invented.
“You have to have a special degree just to operate this damned thing,” he muttered. From the file cabinet, Barbara Fannon smiled sympathetically.
“It doesn’t respond to cursing,” she told him. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll pull it up for you.” Gently nudging him aside, she sat down and put her fingers on the keyboard.
“Alex,” Marsh said. “All I want is the medical records for my own son, and this damned machine won’t give them to me.”
“Don’t be silly,” Barbara told him. “You just have to ask it politely, in terms it understands.” She tapped at the keyboard for a few moments, and the screen came to life. “There you are. Just push this button, and it will scroll right on down, from the day he was born until the last time he was here.” She stood up, relinquishing the chair to Marsh once again, and went back to her filing.
Marsh began scrolling through the record, paying little attention to anything until he suddenly came to the end of the file. The last entry was for a routine checkup that Alex had undergone the previous April. He gazed irritably at the screen for a moment, then glared at Barbara Fannon’s back. “Are we really five months behind in the records?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if we’re really five months behind in the records,” Marsh repeated. “This is September, and the last entry in Alex’s file is for his checkup in April. That’s five months.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Barbara replied. “We haven’t even been twenty-four hours behind in the last three years. Usually everything that happens to a patient is in the records within two or three hours. Let me see.” She bent over Marsh’s shoulder and began tapping on the keyboard once more, but this time nothing happened. The record simply came to an abrupt end.
“See?”
“I see that something’s wrong, and it could be any number of things. Now, why don’t you just go back to your office and get back to administering this place, and I’ll figure out what’s happened to Alex’s records. If I can’t get them out of the computer, I’ll bring you the originals from downstairs, but that will take a while. All right?”
Reluctantly Marsh got up and started out of the office, but Barbara Fannon stopped him. “Marsh, is something wrong? With Alex, I mean?”
“I don’t know,” Marsh replied. “I just have a bad feeling about him, and I don’t like Torres. I want to go over his records and see exactly what was done, that’s all.”
“All right,” Barbara Fannon sighed. “Then at least I know what I’m looking for. I’ll have something for you as soon as possible.”
But an hour later, when she came into his office, her expression was both puzzled and worried. “I can’t find them,” she said.
Marsh looked up from the report he was revising. “They’re not in the computer?”
“Worse than that,” Barbara replied, seating herself in the chair opposite Marsh and handing him a file folder. “They aren’t here at all.”
Frowning, Marsh opened the folder, which had Alex’s name neatly typed at the top. Inside was a single sheet of paper, with one sentence typed on it:
Contents of this file transferred to the Institute for the Human Brain, by authority of Marshall Lonsdale, M.D., Director.
Marsh’s frown deepened. “What the hell does this mean?”
Barbara shrugged. “I assume it means that you sent all the records relating to the accident to Palo Alto, and they never came back.”
Marsh reached over and pressed a key on the intercom. “Frank, can you come in here?” A moment later Frank Mallory came into the office, and Marsh handed him the sheet of paper. “Do you know anything about this?”
Mallory glanced at it, then shrugged. “Sure. All the records went to Palo Alto. Torres needed them.”
“But why didn’t they come back? And why didn’t we keep copies?”
Now Mallory, too, was frowning. “I … well, I guess I thought they had. They should have been here months ago, along with copies of what was done down there. It’s all part of Alex’s medical history.”
“Exactly,” Marsh agreed. “But apparently they didn’t. Barbara, would you mind getting on the phone and calling down there? Find out what’s going on, and why those records never came back.”
When they were alone, Frank Mallory studied Marsh for a moment. “Why the sudden upset, Marsh?” he asked. “Is something going on with Alex that I don’t know about?”
“I don’t know,” Marsh admitted. “It’s just something I can’t quite put my finger on. I’m worried about him.”
“And you don’t like Raymond Torres.”
“I’ve never said I did,” Marsh replied, unable to keep a defensive tone out of his voice. “But it’s more than that. Torres is acting more and more as though he owns Alex, and Alex … well, I guess I’m just worried about him.”
“What about Ellen? Is she worried too?”
Marsh shrugged helplessly. “I wish she were. Unfortunately, she thinks Torres is the miracle man of the century. But she also thinks there’s a curse on La Paloma, or some such thing.”
Mallory’s eyes widened in disbelief. “A curse? Oh, come on, Marsh, not Ellen—”
“I know,” Marsh sighed. “And I don’t think she really believes it herself. She was just upset this morning. What with Marty Lewis being killed so soon after Alex’s accident—”
“Which events have no connection whatsoever,” Mallory pointed out.
“I told her that,” Marsh agreed. “And when she thinks about it, I’m sure she’ll realize it’s true. But what’s really bugging me is Torres’s attitude.” He told Mallory about the conversation he’d had with Torres after the funeral. “And all he did was suggest that I read the release we signed.”
“And have you? I mean, since the night you signed it?”
Before Marsh could reply, the door opened, and Barbara Fannon stepped into the office, another file folder in her hand. One look at her face told Marsh that something was wrong.
“What is it? What did they say?”
Barbara shook her head, as if even she couldn’t believe what she’d been told. “They said they have all the records and that they won’t be returning them. They won’t even be returning our records, let alone forwarding copies of their own!”
“That’s impossible,” Marsh said. “They can’t do that—”
“They … they said they can, Marsh,” Barbara replied, her voice so low the two men had to strain to hear her. “They said the instructions and authorizations are very clear in the release you signed before the operation.”
“I don’t believe it,” Marsh declared. “Let’s take a look at that release.”
Silently Barbara handed him the folder. “I thought you’d want to see it,” she said. “I … well, I already read it.”
Marsh scanned the document, then went back and reread the whole thing very carefully. When he was done, he handed it to Frank Mallory.
“It won’t hold up,” Mallory said when he, too, had read every word of the agreement Marsh and Ellen had made with the Institute for the Human Brain. “There isn’t a court in the country that would uphold all this. My God, according to this, the man isn’t accountable to anybody. He doesn’t have to release any records, describe any procedures—nothing. And he can do anything he wants with Alex for as long as he wants. According to this, you’ve even given him custody of Alex. Why the hell did you sign it in the first place?” At the look on Marsh’s face, he immediately regretted his words. “Sorry, Marsh,” he mumbled, “that was out of line.”
“Was it?” Marsh asked, his voice hollow. “I wonder. I should have read it—Lord knows Torres told me to enough times. But I guess I thought it was a standard release.”
“It’s about as far from standard as anything I’ve ever seen,” Mallory said. “I think we’d better get a lawyer on this right away.”
Marsh nodded. “But I’m not sure what good it’ll do. Even if a lawyer can get it broken, it’ll take months, if not years. Besides,” he added, “even if I’d read it thoroughly, I would have signed it.”
“But it seems to me the circumstances constitute duress of the worst kind,” Mallory said. “It was either sign or let Alex die, for God’s sake! What else could you do?”
“More to the point, what do I do now?” Marsh asked.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room, as all three of its occupants realized the position Marsh was in. Without the records, they had no idea of what had been done to Alex, but that was the least of it.
The first thought that had flashed through all their minds was simply to remove Alex from the area. But that, of course, was impossible now.
Besides not knowing what procedures had been used to save Alex’s life, they also had no idea of what treatment might still be in progress, and what the ramifications of ending that treatment might be.
It was a trap, and there seemed to be no way out.
Alex sat on the hillside, the afternoon sun warming his back even though the offshore breeze was already starting to bring the cool sea air inland. He was staring down at the hacienda, and in his memory, images were once again beginning to flash.
He seemed to remember horses filling the courtyard, then riding away toward the village.
He remembered people—his people—walking slowly away from the hacienda, carrying small bundles.
And he remembered three people who remained in the courtyard long after all the others were gone. In his memory, he couldn’t see their faces clearly, but he knew who they were.
They were his family.
Then the faintly remembered voices began in his head, one voice standing out from all the others.
“We are not afraid to die … we will not leave our land …”
But they had left. The book had said they fled to Mexico.
“It will do you no good to kill us … my son will find you, and he will kill you …”
The words echoed in Alex’s head. He stood up and began walking up the hillside, and then, when he was near the top, he plunged into a tangle of scrub oak, and a moment later began digging. The earth, packed hard after nearly a century and a half, resisted, but in the end gave way.
Two feet below the surface, Alex found the ancient skeletons. He hunched low to the ground, staring at the three skulls, their hollow eye sockets seeming to plead with him; then he slowly reburied them. When the job was finished, he began walking once again, staying high on the hillside, but always keeping the hacienda in his view. The memories were coming clearer now, and images of what had happened there flashed brightly in his mind.
The walls—the whitewashed walls—were stained with crimson, and the bodies, crumpled and torn, lay still in the dust.
And then, as he moved around to the east, the images began to fade, and soon were gone altogether.
The images were gone, but the memories remained.
Finally he came back down into the village.
Lisa Cochran looked up when the bell on Jake’s door clattered noisily, and waved to Alex as he walked into the pizza parlor. He hesitated, then joined Lisa and Bob Carey at the table they were sharing.
“How come you weren’t in school this afternoon?”
“I went to the library,” Alex replied. “There was some stuff I wanted to look up.”
“So you just went?” Bob asked. “Jeez, Alex, didn’t you even ask anyone if it was all right? They’ll mark you down for a cut.”
Alex shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
Lisa looked at Alex sharply. “Alex, is something wrong?”
Again Alex shrugged, then glanced from Lisa to Bob. “Can I … well, can I ask you guys a question without you thinking I’m nuts?”
Bob Carey rolled his eyes and stood up. “Ask Lisa,” he said. “I gotta get out of here—I promised Kate I’d come by on my way home and give her the homework assignments.”
“When’s she coming back to school?” Lisa asked.
“Search me,” Bob replied. Then he lowered his voice. “Did you hear anything about her not coming back at all?”
Lisa shook her head. “Who’d you hear that from?”
“Carolyn Evans. She said she didn’t think Kate would come back to school until after they try her dad, and if he gets convicted, she doesn’t think Kate will come back at all.”
Lisa groaned. “And you believed her? Carolyn Evans? Oh, come on, Bob. Even if Mr. Lewis did do it, nobody’s going to hold it against Kate!”
“I don’t know,” Bob replied. “Sometimes people can get really weird.” Then, after shooting a meaningful look toward Alex, he left.
“I don’t believe it!” Lisa cried when he was gone. “I swear to God, Alex, sometimes people make me so mad. Carolyn Evans spreading gossip like that, and Bob looking at you like you’re some kind of nut—”
“Maybe I am,” Alex said, and Lisa, her mouth still open, stared at him for a moment.
“What?”
“I said, maybe I am a nut.”
“Oh, come on, Alex. You’re not crazy—you just don’t remember a lot of things.”
“I know,” Alex replied. “But I’m starting to remember some things, and they’re really strange. I mean, they’re things I couldn’t possibly remember, because they happened before I was even born.”
“Like what?” Lisa asked. She started to fidget with a straw that lay dripping Coke on the Formica tabletop. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know.
“I’m not sure,” Alex said. “It’s just images, and words, and things that don’t look quite right. But I don’t know what it all means.”
“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s just all in your brain. You know, from the accident?”
Alex hesitated, then nodded. “Maybe you’re right.” But in his own mind, he wasn’t so sure. The memories had seemed too real to be figments of his imagination.
Suddenly Lisa looked up at him. “Alex, do you think Mr. Lewis killed Mrs. Lewis?”
Alex hesitated, then shrugged. “How should I know?”
“Well, none of us knows,” Lisa replied. “But what do you think?”
Suddenly Alex remembered his dream from the night Kate’s mother had died.
“I don’t think he did it,” he said. “I think someone else did it.” He hesita
ted. “And I think it’s going to happen again.”
Lisa stared at him, then stood up. “That’s an awful thing to say,” she whispered, her eyes furious. “If you’re trying to convince me you’re nuts, you’ve just done it. Nobody but a crazy person would say something like that!” Picking up her books and her bag, she hurried out into the street, letting the door slam shut behind her.
Alex, his eyes empty, watched her go.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ellen listened quietly as her husband once again recited the terms of the release they’d signed before Alex’s operation. Even after more than an hour’s discussion, she was still certain he was overreacting. “Marsh, you’re being absolutely paranoid,” she said when he at last fell silent. “I don’t care what you think Raymond Torres is up to, because you’re wrong. Raymond isn’t up to anything. He’s Alex’s doctor, and whatever he’s doing is in Alex’s best interests.”
“Then why won’t he let us see the records?” Marsh demanded, and Ellen could only shake her head wearily.
“I don’t know. But I’m sure there’s an explanation, and it seems to me the person you should be talking to is Raymond, not me.”
Marsh had been standing next to the fireplace, leaning on the mantel, but now he wheeled around to face his wife. He hadn’t gotten through to her at all. No matter what he told her—about the wall of secrecy Torres had erected around Alex’s case, about the terms of the release, in which they’d given Torres full legal custody of Alex—she still remained steadfast in her defense of the man. To her, it came down to only one thing—Torres had saved Alex’s life.
“Besides, what does it matter?” he heard her asking. “Why are the records so important? The point is that whatever he did, it worked!” Suddenly the calm façade she had been maintaining slipped, and her voice took on a bitter edge. “I should think you’d be grateful! You always said Alex was brilliant—gifted, even—and now Raymond’s proved it.”
