by John Coyne
The sun was lower on the horizon so the chairs and tables were now in the shade. He carried them away from the house, into the last bright wedge of afternoon sunlight. It was warm in the sun, and he took off his suit coat and loosened his tie.
“I really don’t have anything more to tell you about the little girl,” Sara said, handing him a cup of coffee. “What about the autopsy? Did they find out anything from that?” She finished pouring her own cup of tea, and finally looked across at him.
“The coroner says the girl wasn’t murdered.” Tom kept his eyes on her, watching for her reaction.
Sara straightened up in the lawn chair. The white terry-cloth robe had slipped loose, and he could see the top of her two-piece bathing suit.
“What, then?” she asked.
“The doctor said a seizure like the Volt child. I’ve got a copy of the coroner’s report. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes, please.”
He set the cup down and reached into his suit pocket. “Perhaps you can make some sense of this,” he added, handing it to her. “It’s over my head.”
The medical report was several pages long, including a detailed description of the physical appearance of the dead girl, and Sara scanned it quickly, looking for details on the seizure.
“This isn’t too clear, but there seems to have been a breakdown in the hypothalamus due to brain swelling.” She glanced up at Tom Dine. He was sitting perched on the edge of the chair and leaning forward. She hesitated a moment to study his face.
He was dangerous-looking. It was this look that had initially struck her, and even now, sitting safely in the bright sun of the afternoon, in full view of a half-dozen other houses, he still frightened her. But then he smiled abruptly, and she saw again how charming he could look.
“What is the hypothalamus?” he asked.
“The hypothalamus is in the brain. It’s under the thalamus in the cerebrum. The hypothalamus is what regulates a lot of our motivated behavior like eating, drinking, and even sex--it’s our so-called ‘pleasure center.’” Sara held up the report and added, “This is sketchy, but the coroner says that the child’s brain suffered massive assaults in the region of the hypothalamus, destroying the tissues around the third ventricle. This doctor says it appeared as if the cells had been burned.”
“You didn’t see any physical damage to Debbie when you tried to revive her?”
Sara shook her head. “There was a small quantity of blood in her nostrils, and bruises around the face, but nothing significant, certainly not enough to kill her.”
“Then what caused her death?”
“I have no idea. I might be able to tell more if I had done the cerebral autopsy myself, but from what this doctor tells us, I couldn’t say for certain. It would only be a guess.”
“What would you guess, Sara?” He was still leaning forward, eager for any sort of information.
“This isn’t for publication?” She looked at him, frowning again.
“No, not if you insist,” he agreed reluctantly.
Sara looked again at the typed report and answered slowly, thinking out her reply as she spoke. “There is a type of neurosurgery in which tiny electrodes are implanted in the brain and used to destroy a small number of brain cells. This is usually done instead of a lobectomy. You implant the electrodes in the amygdala region, then apply radio frequency current. This current generates enough heat to destroy the diseased brain cells. It once was a standard operating technique for certain patients with violent epilepsy.
“Now, the coroner says that the cell tissues in the hypothalamus region were destroyed within a half-inch radius. It’s as if her brain had been hit by a massive bolt of lightning.”
“Incredible!” Tom stood and began to pace on the open terrace, walking in a wide circle around Sara’s chair. “What you’re suggesting is that this child was somehow electrified?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Sara resisted his assumption. “I don’t know how the girl was killed.”
“Well, let’s speculate,” Tom said, eager now to come up with some answers. “How could you destroy this hypothalamus without an operation?” He paused before Sara’s chair.
Sara hesitated before replying. She was looking away, concentrating, trying to think how it might be done. “Well,” she said slowly, “you’d have to make the incision here”—she paused to demonstrate, indicating a spot on the nape of her neck—“through the cerebellum and into the hypothalamus.”
“Could the coroner tell if such an incision had been made in the neck?” Tom asked quickly.
“I wouldn’t think so. It wouldn’t be any more obvious than a tetanus shot.”
“But it would have to be done by someone with training, right?” he asked immediately, anxious now to fit the first corner of the puzzle together. He was on to something solid; he just knew it.
“Yes, some training, I’d guess. The incision isn’t the complicated part; it’s the electronics. The searing.” She was frowning, unsure what conclusion the reporter was drawing from these few bits of medical information. “Mr. Dine, I’m not suggesting any of this happened.”
“Right! Of course!” He began to pace again, and as his mind worked, his pacing picked up. There were no marks on the child, he thought. It wasn’t sloppily done.
Now he was excited at the possibility the child, and perhaps Amy Volt, had been murdered by an electrical force. He spun around and abruptly asked, “Would you examine Debbie Severt yourself?”
Confused, Sara shook her head. “That’s impossible. I haven’t the authority. I can’t …”
“Couldn’t you get it?” he asked next. “Couldn’t you get her parents to let you?”
Sara shook her head and began to gather up the cups. The sun had left the back terrace and now the late afternoon air was chilly.
“How can you not do something?” Tom protested, returning to the lawn chair. The tone of his voice was accusing, but Sara looked at him coolly, her eyes icy blue and angry. Her sudden, blunt reaction silenced him.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly.
“Mr. Dine, my diagnosis is merely speculative. There are thousands of doctors in this area; I’m just one of them. I have no more right than you do to tell the coroner what to do, or to suggest to Peggy or Helen that their children need another autopsy.” She stopped and, picking up the tray, moved toward the back door of the house.
“Here, let me help you,” he offered.
“No, thank you. I have it.” She was polite, but he could see she was angry. He kept quiet and only went ahead to open the screen door. She passed him without a smile and, as he turned to follow, he spotted the child.
She was standing beyond Sara’s property line at the edge of the Village. Here the valley came flush against glacier rocks and small, tough evergreen bushes that grew wild at the edge of the farm land, encasing the Village within a natural boundary. The young girl was in among the trees, crouched down and watching.
“Who’s that?” Tom asked, closing the kitchen door.
Sara looked over, unsure of what he meant, and he nodded out the windows.
Sara set the tray down on the kitchen sink and looked across the terrace to where her property line buttressed the rocky slope fifty yards away. She could see her clearly. The child made no attempt to camouflage herself in the thorn bushes on the steep slope.
“It’s Cindy Delp,” Sara answered. “The daughter of the local farmer. She’s autistic.” Sara spoke slowly and did not take her eyes from the girl. She could see, even from that distance, that Cindy’s expression was passive and non-threatening. Yet, having the child so close to her house and brazenly spying on her was upsetting. She would have to talk to the Delps. They had to exercise more control over their daughter.
“Delp?” Tom Dine asked quickly.
“Yes, do you know him?” Sara turned away from the windows, surprised at the reporter’s sudden reaction.
Tom shook his head. “No, but Santucci ment
ioned his name,” he said vaguely, backing off from his initial reaction. He debated whether he should tell Sara about the detective’s theory on Bruce Delp, and decided it would be a mistake. Instead, he asked, “Do you know the family?”
“Slightly. I see Bruce Delp most often. He’s usually around working on the property. Pearl, his wife, does some light housekeeping in the Village and is a part-time aide at Chestnut Lodge. That’s the psychiatric hospital over in Maryland.”
“An aide?” Tom blurted out. He made the connection immediately: an aide, someone knowledgeable enough to make the incision. Perhaps it wasn’t Delp. Perhaps it was his wife—or, for that matter, both of them. The notion of a husband and wife killing small children sent a chill through him.
“What is it?” Sara asked. For a moment she had seen his tough posture slip away and she saw clearly that he was excited.
For a split second in the still kitchen they stared across the table at each other. The look in their eyes told them that they were in danger.
“What is it?” Sara demanded. The last few days had left her weak and irritable.
Tom shook his head. “Nothing really.”
“What do you mean, nothing! I can see on your face something is wrong.” Her voice was high-pitched and insistent.
“It’s Delp,” he said quietly, “Santucci thinks he may have killed the girl. He found a footprint near the Indian mound.” The reporter shrugged, then went on. “When you said his wife was an aide at a hospital, I …” He shrugged again.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. She swallowed fast and turned around abruptly so he wouldn’t see her gag.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sara answered, nodding as she looked out the window. Cindy was still crouched in the rough outcropping of rocks, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees as she stared across the lawn at the new house. Her beautiful face was blank and expressionless.
“This is ridiculous!” Sara exclaimed. “I’m going to take that child home.”
She was reaching for the back door when she was struck, hit again with that sweet mixture of pleasure and pain. Lightheaded and hot, she stumbled against the butcher block table as her muscles contracted and the blood rushed to her center. Her legs went weak, and she slid down slowly to the cool tile floor of the kitchen. The strong, pulsating sensation spread through her limbs, leaving her spent and dreamy.
Tom dropped down beside her and pulled her quickly to him. She slipped her arms around him and buried her head against his chest. For a moment neither one spoke. She felt safe in his grasp, and allowed herself the luxury of being held as the powerful current ran its course through her body.
“What is it, did you faint?” Tom asked.
Sara nodded, still unable to speak. For the moment she was frightened and inarticulate, and she did not want to leave the security of his arms. Through her panic and confusion filtered a comforting thought: she had forgotten how wonderful it was to be held.
Tom kept his arms wrapped around her and pressed her head gently to his chest. Then, taking her by the shoulders, he moved her away so he could look at her face. The pupils of her eyes were dilated and wet with tears, and her face had softened and lost its tenseness. She gazed up dreamily into his eyes. He leaned over and kissed her once.
“No,” she said, but she did not turn away or struggle.
“Why?” he asked.
She shook her head. “This isn’t what you think.”
He frowned and stared at her, puzzled by her reply.
She pulled out of his arms then, gently, for she really did not know how she felt about him.
“I didn’t really faint. It’s just … something I can’t explain,” she said.
“Well, are you okay now? I mean, you stumbled …”
“Yes, I’m fine … now.” She smiled nicely at Tom. “I’m not trying to be mysterious, but lately my body has been reacting rather oddly.”
“You mean one of those mysterious female ailments?”
“Yes,” she answered, “something like that.”
“Well,” he said lightly, “then you’re not in love with me. For a moment, I thought you had been felled by my irresistible charm.” He smiled, and she realized that she did want to be nice to him, that finally she did like the man.
“No, not yet,” she answered, and let her eyes linger for a moment on his face.
Tom said nothing. He knew when to be quiet and not push his good luck. He had taken a chance by kissing her, but she was reacting to more than that. The odd look in her eyes, the shuddering of her body, the way she had clung to him—in another woman, under other circumstances, he would understand what that meant. But here, in Sara’s kitchen … He watched her as she stood at the sink, looking across the lawn to where the little girl still sat.
The sun had disappeared and a fall wind had picked up as evening approached. It was cold outside and Cindy was wearing only a summer dress. She must be freezing, Sara thought, and then she staggered again as the driving current tore through her womb.
“Oh, God,” she whispered and grabbed the kitchen counter, supporting herself as the excruciating bliss jerked through her body.
In two strides Tom was beside her, but this time she scurried away, shaking her head. She clung to the counter, bent over and gasping. It would be over in a few seconds, she realized, and yielded to the pulsating flow, letting it be easier on herself. Slowly, the roaring in her ears subsided, and as she inhaled she became aware of him again, of the two of them standing awkwardly in the middle of the huge kitchen.
“Sara?” he whispered.
She nodded, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. “Sorry,” she smiled apologetically.
“What the hell was that?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She stood up straight and took several deep breaths to calm herself. “This happened once before. A couple of days ago. For no reason I can think of, I had this tremendous, overwhelming orgasm. That was the morning after Amy’s death. Now it’s happened again. Twice.” Sara shook her head. She was leaning against the counter, and she pulled the terry-cloth bathrobe tighter around her body.
“No matter what you may think, it’s not a pleasure or a thrill. It’s more like … an assault. It’s painful, and terrifying, too—your own body completely out of your control.”
“And it’s always like this? Unprovoked, so to speak? Spontaneous? I wouldn’t have thought that was possible.”
Embarrassed, Sara sought refuge in a clinical lecture. “Well, it’s not entirely clear what causes orgasms. We do know that they are a product of our minds. An orgasm is triggered by a reaction in the hypothalamus.”
Tom jerked his head up, and Sara, too, realized what she had said. It was so obvious that she had almost missed the connection. It was Tom who said slowly, whispering as if they had stumbled on information that was important and delicate, “The children were attacked in the hypothalamus.”
“Easy.” She gestured for him to calm down. “Those children’s brains were violently destroyed. The cell tissues were electrified. Fried. Nothing close to that has happened to me.” Calmly, as if to reassure herself as well as Tom, she said, “Besides, I feel fine now.”
Then she remembered Cindy Delp and looked out the kitchen window. It was almost dark, yet she could see the rocky perimeter where Cindy had crouched among the rocks and thorn bushes. The steep slope was deserted and the child was gone.
EIGHT
“Sara, this is Marcia Fleming. I hope I haven’t called too early …” She sounded apprehensive.
“No, I’ve been awake for several hours. Is there anything wrong?”
Sara stood in the front hall of her home. She already had on her coat and was on her way into Washington to begin looking for an apartment. She had decided she had to find another place to live. She could not live alone in this Village.
“I don’t want to bother you, Sara, but …” Marcia sighed into the phone. “Would you mind sto
pping by here for a few minutes. I have something that’s bothering me, and I thought …”
“Of course. I’ll be right over.” Sara tried to sound positive and cheery; she could tell by Marcia’s voice that the woman was depressed.
“I’ll put on some coffee,” Marcia answered, as if offering an inducement.
Sara walked through the backyards of the Village to Marcia’s place, below her on the hillside. She could see Marcia in her kitchen, and Sara went up the back steps and knocked on the door.
“Oh, Sara, thank you for coming over,” Marcia smiled up at the taller woman and Sara saw the exhaustion in Marcia’s eyes.
“Are you all right, Marcia?” she asked immediately.
“I don’t know,” Marcia whispered, and moved away from the door to sit at the dining room table, looking through the windows at the backyard. In the damp, misty, cold morning the grass was green and lush.
“Sara, I realize you’re not a gynecologist, but …” Marcia hesitated, then added, “but you are a doctor, and a … woman.”
“What is it, Marcia? If I can’t help you, I can certainly put you in touch with someone who can.” She smiled, and waited for Marcia to tell her what was wrong.
“Something is wrong with my body,” Marcia began, not looking up. She was holding the cup of coffee in her hands, as if warming them. “I don’t know if it’s because of Debbie’s death … my body telling me something … overemotional, or what.” She was crying, drops of tears splashing down her cheeks. “This week, since Debbie was … I can’t control myself.”
“How?” Sara asked softly.
“I keep having these orgasms. For no reason, you understand? Without any sex, or even any man around.” She looked over at Sara, her eyes wild with fear. “When I’m alone, I’m suddenly hit by real, violent orgasms. Incredibly strong. But I’m by myself, doing nothing, and they hit me.” She shook her head. “What is it, Sara? What’s happening to me? It’s happened three times now. I remember each one.”
“Marcia, it’s been happening to me, too. All this week.” Sara clutched her arm.