Brain Child

by John Saul

  “Something wrong, honey?” she heard him ask, and managed to nod her head.

  “They … they want to talk to Lisa …”

  Jim Cochran stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him. “Now, what’s this all about?” he asked. As briefly as they could, Finnerty and Jackson explained why they were there.

  Reluctantly Jim invited them into the living room and asked them to sit down. “If she wants to talk to you, it’s all right,” he said. “But she doesn’t have to, you know.”

  “I know,” Finnerty replied. “Believe me, Mr. Cochran, we don’t suspect her of anything. All we want to know is if she noticed anything last night.”

  “I find it impossible to believe that Kate Lewis and Bob Carey would kill anyone,” Jim said, his voice tight. “Let alone two people.”

  “I know, sir,” Finnerty said. “But I’d still like to talk to your daughter, if you don’t mind.”

  “What is it?” Carol asked when Jim came into the kitchen a moment later. Jim glanced around the room, but only his wife and older daughter were there. Kim was nowhere to be seen. “I sent Kim up to her room and told her not to come down again until I came up for her. Now, what do they want?”

  “It’s crazy, if you ask me,” Jim replied. “For some reason, they think maybe Kate and Bob killed Valerie, and they want to talk to Lisa about what happened last night. They want to know if she noticed anything strange about either one of them.”

  “Oh, God,” Carol groaned. She sank into a chair, her fingers suddenly twisting at the tie of her bathrobe. Lisa, her eyes wide, was shaking her head in disbelief.

  “They think Kate killed Mrs. Benson?” she asked. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

  “I know, sweetheart,” Jim said. “It doesn’t seem possible, but apparently that’s what they think. And you don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to.”

  But Lisa stood up. “No,” she said. “It’s all right. I’ll talk to them. And I’ll tell them just what a dumb idea they’ve come up with.”

  She went into the living room, and the two officers rose to their feet, but before they could speak, Lisa began talking.

  “Kate and Bob didn’t do anything,” she said. “And if you want me to say they were acting funny last night, I won’t. They were acting just like they always act, except that Kate was a little quieter than usual.”

  “Nobody’s saying anyone did anything, Lisa,” Finnerty interjected. “We’re just trying to find out what happened, and if the kids could have had any part in it at all.”

  “Well, they couldn’t,” Lisa replied. “And I know why you’re asking questions about them. It’s those kids in Marin, isn’t it?”

  Finnerty swallowed, and nodded.

  “Well, they were creeps. They were doing drugs all the time, and drinking, and all that kind of stuff. And Bob and Kate aren’t like that at all.”

  “Honey, take it easy,” Jim Cochran said, stepping into the room and putting his arm around his daughter. “They just want to ask some questions. If you don’t want to answer them, you don’t have to, but don’t try to keep them from doing their job.”

  As Lisa turned to gaze into her father’s eyes, her indignation dissolved into tears. “But, Daddy, it’s so awful. Why would they think Kate and Bob would do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Jim admitted. “And maybe they don’t. Now, do you want to talk to them, or not?”

  Lisa hesitated, then nodded, and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief her father handed her. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “But nothing happened last night.”

  “All right,” Finnerty said, taking out his notebook. “Let’s start with that.”

  Slowly Lisa reconstructed the events of the evening before. She’d gone to Jake’s by herself, and, as usual, a lot of the kids had been there. Then, when Bob and Kate came in, the three of them had taken a table together, and sat sipping Cokes and talking about nothing in particular. Then Alex Lonsdale had joined them for a while, and eventually they had all left.

  “And there wasn’t anything odd about Kate or Bob? They didn’t seem nervous, or worried, or anything?”

  Lisa’s eyes narrowed. “If you mean did they act like they’d just killed someone, no, they didn’t. In fact, when they left, Kate even wondered if they ought to call Mrs. Benson and tell her they were on their way.” Then, when she saw the two policemen exchange a glance, she spoke again. “And don’t try to make anything out of that, either. Kate always called her mom if she was going to be late. She always said her mom had enough to worry about with her dad being a drunk and shouldn’t have to worry about her, too.”

  Finnerty closed his notebook and stood up. “All right,” he said. “I guess that’s it, if you can’t think of anything else—anything out of the ordinary at all.”

  Lisa hesitated, and once more Finnerty and Jackson exchanged a glance.

  “Is there something?” Jim asked.

  “I … I don’t know,” Lisa replied.

  “It doesn’t matter what it is,” Finnerty told her, reopening his notepad.

  “But it doesn’t have anything to do with Kate and Bob,” Lisa said.

  Jackson frowned. “Then what does it have to do with? One of the other kids?”

  Again Lisa hesitated, then nodded. “With … with Alex Lonsdale,” she said.

  “What about Alex?” Jim asked. “It’s all right, honey. Just tell us what happened with Alex.”

  “Well, nothing, really,” Lisa said. “Ever since the accident, he’s so strange, but last night he said he was getting better, and for a while I thought he was. I mean, he was smiling, and he laughed at jokes, and he seemed almost … well, almost like he used to be.” She fell silent, and Finnerty finally asked her what, exactly, had happened.

  “I don’t know,” Lisa confessed. “But finally Bob started teasing Alex about something, and Alex didn’t blush.”

  “That’s all?” Finnerty asked. “The strange thing was that he didn’t blush?”

  Lisa nodded. “Alex always used to blush. In fact, some of the kids used to say things to him just to watch him get embarrassed. But last night, even though he was smiling, and laughing, and all that, he still wasn’t blushing.”

  “I see,” Finnerty said. He closed his notebook for the last time and slid his pencil back in his pocket. A few minutes later, when they were outside, he turned to Jackson. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I still think we’re barking up the wrong tree,” Jackson replied. “But I guess we might as well have a talk with the Lonsdale boy.”

  “Yeah,” Finnerty agreed. Then he rolled his eyes. “Kids amaze me,” he said. “They spend a whole evening together, and the only odd thing the girl can remember is that her boyfriend didn’t blush. Isn’t that something?”

  Jackson frowned. “Maybe it is important,” he said. “Maybe it’s very important.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Marsh Lonsdale sat listening as the two officers interviewed Alex about the events of the night before, but found himself concentrating much more on the manner in which his son spoke than on the words themselves. They were in the living room, gathered around the fireplace, and at the far end—huddled alone in a chair as if she wanted to divorce herself from everything—Ellen seemed not to be listening at all.

  “Everything,” Finnerty had said an hour ago. “We want you to tell us everything you remember about last night, just the way you remember it.”

  And ever since, Alex had been speaking, his voice steady and expressionless, recounting what he remembered of his activities the night before, from the time he left the house to go to Jake’s, to the moment he returned. It was, Marsh realized, almost like listening to a tape recorder. Alex remembered what everyone had said, and repeated it verbatim. After the first twenty minutes, both Finnerty and Jackson had stopped taking notes, and were now simply sitting, listening. When, at last, Alex’s recitation was over, there was a long silence, then Roscoe
Finnerty got to his feet and went to the mantel. Resting most of his weight on the heavy oak beam that ran the width of the fireplace, he gazed curiously at Alex.

  “You really remember all that?” he asked at last.

  Alex nodded.

  “In that kind of detail?” Finnerty mused aloud.

  “His memory is remarkable,” Marsh said, speaking for the first time since the interview had begun. “It seems to be a function of the brain surgery that was done after his accident. If he says he remembers all of what he just told you, then you can believe he does.”

  Finnerty nodded. “I’m not doubting it,” he said. “I’m just amazed at the detail, that’s all.” He turned back to Alex. “You’ve told us everything that happened at Jake’s, and you’ve told us everything everyone said. But what I want to know is if you noticed anything about Kate Lewis and Bob Carey. Did they act … well, normal?”

  Alex gazed steadily at Finnerty. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t really know what normal is anymore. What you’re asking me to do is describe how they appeared to be feeling, but I can’t do that, since I don’t have feelings anymore. I had them before the accident—or at least everyone says I did—but since the accident I don’t. But they acted just like they always have.” Suddenly he grinned uncomfortably. “Bob was teasing me a little.”

  “I know,” Tom Jackson said. “Your girlfriend told us about that. And she said you didn’t blush.”

  “I don’t think I can blush. I might be able to learn how, but I haven’t yet.”

  “Learn how?” Jackson echoed blankly. “But you just smiled.”

  Alex glanced at his father, and Marsh nodded. “I’ve been practicing. I’m not like other people, so I’m practicing being like other people. It seemed like I ought to grin before I admitted that Bob was teasing me, so I did.”

  “Okay,” Finnerty said, staring at the boy and feeling chilled. “Is there anything else you remember? Anything at all?”

  Alex hesitated, then shook his head. A few minutes later, Finnerty and Jackson were gone.

  “Alex?” Marsh asked. “Is there something else you remember about last night that you didn’t tell them?”

  Once again, Alex shook his head. Everything he remembered, he’d told them about. But they hadn’t asked him if he knew who killed Valerie Benson. If they had, he would have told them, though he wouldn’t have been able to tell them why she died, or why Mrs. Lewis died, either. But when he’d awakened this morning, the last pieces had fallen into place, and it had all come together in his mind. He understood his brain now, and soon he would understand exactly what had happened.

  He would understand what had happened, and he would know who he was.

  “Why, Alex,” Arlette Pringle said, her plain features lighting up with a smile, “you’re becoming quite a regular here, aren’t you?”

  “I need some more information, Miss Pringle,” Alex replied. “I need to know more about the town.”

  “La Paloma?” Miss Pringle asked, her voice doubtful. “I’m afraid I just don’t have much. I have the book I showed you a couple of days ago, but that’s about it.” She shrugged ruefully. “I’m afraid not much ever happened here. Nothing worth writing about, anyway.”

  “But there has to be something,” Alex pressed. “Something about the old days, when the town was mostly Mexican.”

  “Mexican,” Arlette repeated, her lips pursing thoughtfully as her fingers tapped on her desktop. “I’m afraid I just don’t know exactly what you want. I have some information about the Franciscan fathers, and the missions, but I’m not sure there’s much that’s specifically about our mission. La Paloma just wasn’t that important.”

  “What about when the Americans came?”

  Again Arlette shrugged. “Not that I know of. Of course, there are the old stories, but I don’t pay any attention to them, and I don’t think they’re written down anywhere.”

  “What stories?”

  “Oh, some of the older Chicanos in town still talk about the old days, when Don Roberto de Meléndez y Ruiz still had the hacienda, and about what happened after the treaty was signed.” She leaned forward, and her voice dropped confidentially. “Supposedly there was a massacre up there.”

  Alex frowned slightly, as a vague memory stirred on the edges of his consciousness. “At the hacienda?”

  “That’s what they say. But of course, the stories have been passed down through the generations, and I don’t suppose there’s much truth to any of them, really. But if you really want to know about them, why don’t you go see Mrs. Torres?”

  “María?” Alex asked, his voice suddenly hollow. For the first time since his operation, a pang of genuine fear crashed through the barriers in his mind, and he felt himself tremble. It fit. It fit perfectly with the idea that had begun forming in his mind last night, then come to fruition this morning.

  Arlette Pringle nodded. “That’s right. She still lives around the corner in a little house behind the mission. You tell her I sent you, but I warn you, once she starts talking, she won’t stop.” She wrote an address on a slip of paper and handed it to Alex. “Now, don’t believe everything she says,” she cautioned as Alex was about to leave the library. “Don’t forget, she’s old, and she’s always been very bitter. I can’t say I blame her, really, but still, it’s best not to put too much stock in her stories. I’m afraid a lot of them have been terribly exaggerated.”

  Alex left the library, and glanced at the address on the scrap of paper, then crumpled it and threw it into a trash bin. A few minutes later he was a block and a half away, his eyes fixed on a tiny frame house that seemed on the verge of falling in on itself.

  Home.

  The word flashed into his mind, and images of the little house tumbled over one another. He knew, with all the certainty of a lifetime of memories, that he had come home. He pushed his way through the broken gate and made his way up onto the sagging porch. He knocked at the front door, then waited. As he was about to knock again, the door opened a crack, and the ancient eyes of María Torres peered out at him.

  A sigh drifted from her throat, and she opened the door wider.

  “M-Mama?” Alex stammered uncertainly.

  María gazed at him for a moment, then slowly shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “You are not my son. You are someone else. What do you want?”

  “M-Miss Pringle sent me.” Alex faltered. “She said you might be able to tell me what happened here a long time ago.”

  There was a long silence while she seemed to consider his words. “You want to know?” she asked at last, her eyes narrowing to slits. “But you already know. You are Alejandro.”

  Alex frowned, suddenly certain that the familiar searing pain was about to rip through his mind and that the voices were about to start whispering to him. He could almost feel them, niggling around the edges of his consciousness. Doggedly he fought against them. “I … I just want to know what happened a long time ago,” he managed to repeat.

  María Torres fell silent once more, regarding him thoughtfully. At last she nodded. “You are Alejandro,” she said again. “You should know what happened.” She held the door wide, and Alex stepped through into the eerily familiar confines of a tiny living room furnished only with a threadbare couch, a sagging easy chair, and a Formica-topped table surrounded by four worn dining chairs.

  All of it was exactly as it had been in his memories a few moments before.

  The shades were drawn, but from one corner a color television suffused the room with an eerie light. Its sound was muted.

  “For company,” the old woman muttered. “I don’t listen, but I watch.” She lowered herself carefully into the easy chair, and Alex sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa. “What stories you want to hear?”

  “The thieves,” Alex said quietly. “Tell me about the thieves and the murderers.”

  María Torres’s eyes flashed darkly in the dim light. “Por qué?” she demanded. “Why do you want to know now?”<
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  “I remember things,” Alex said. “I remember things that happened, and I want to know more about them.”

  “What things?” The old woman was leaning forward now, her eyes fixed intently on Alex.

  “Fernando,” Alex said. “Tío Fernando. He’s buried in San Francisco, at the mission.”

  María’s eyes widened momentarily, then she nodded, and let herself sag back in the chair once again. “Su tío,” she muttered. “Sí, es la verdad …”

  “The truth?” Alex asked. “What’s the truth?”

  Once again the old woman’s eyes brightened. “Habla usted español?”

  “I … I don’t know,” Alex said. “But I understood what you said.”

  The old lady fell silent again, and examined Alex closely through her bleary eyes. In the light of the television set, his features were indistinct, and yet, she realized, the coloring was right. His hair was dark, and his eyes were blue, just as her grandfather had told her Don Roberto’s had been, and as his own had been. Making up her mind, she nodded emphatically. “Sí,” she muttered. “Es la verdad. Don Alejando ha regresado …”

  “Tell me the stories,” Alex said again. “Please just tell me the stories.”

  “They stole,” María said finally. “They came and they stole our lands, and murdered our people. They went up into the canyons first, and murdered the wives of the overseers while the men were out on the land. Then they went to the hacienda and took Don Roberto away and hanged him.”

  Alex frowned. “The tree,” he said. “They hanged him from the big tree.”

  “Sí,” María agreed. “And then they went back to the hacienda, and they killed his family. They killed Doña María, and Isabella, and Estellita. And they would have killed Alejandro, too, if they had found him.”

  “Alejandro?” Alex asked.

  “El hijo,” María Torres said softly. “The son of Don Roberto de Meléndez y Ruiz. Doña María told them she had sent him to Sonora, and they believed her. But he stayed. He hid in the mission with his uncle, who was the priest, and they fled to San Francisco. And then, when Padre Fernando died, Alejandro returned to La Paloma.”