Brain Child

  Ellen shifted in her chair and nervously crossed her legs, unconsciously tugging at her skirt as she did so. “He’s … well, I’m afraid we’re having a little trouble.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Torres commented, concentrating on his pipe rather than Ellen. “I don’t mean this as anything against your husband, but a lot of doctors have a great deal of difficulty in dealing with me. In fact,” he added, his hypnotic eyes fixing directly on her, “a lot of people have always had difficulty dealing with me.” The barest hint of a smile crossed Torres’s face. “I’m talking about the fact that I was always considered something of an oddball.”

  Ellen forced a smile, though she knew his words carried a certain truth. “Whatever you might have been in high school is all over now,” she offered. “You were just so bright we were all terrified of you!”

  “And, apparently, people still are,” Torres replied dryly. “At least your husband seems to be.”

  “I’m not sure terrified is the right word—” Ellen began.

  “Then what would you suggest?” Torres countered. “Frightened? Insecure? Jealous?” He brushed the words aside with an impatient gesture, and his voice grew hard. “Whatever it is—and I assure you it’s of no consequence to me—it has to stop. For Alex’s sake.”

  So this was what it was all about. Ellen sighed in relief. “I know. In fact, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about today. Raymond, I’m starting to worry about Marsh. This thing with Alex’s intellect … Well, I hate to say I’m afraid he’s going to get fixated on it, but I guess that’s exactly what I am afraid of!”

  “And,” Torres added, “you’re afraid that he might decide that I have served my purpose. Is that correct?”

  Ellen nodded unhappily.

  “Well, then we’ll just have to see that that doesn’t happen, won’t we?” Torres smiled at her, and suddenly Ellen felt reassured. There was a strength to the man, a determination to do whatever must be done, that made her feel that whatever happened, he would be able to deal with it. She felt herself begin to relax under his steady gaze.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Torres shrugged, seeming unconcerned. “Until he actually suggests removing Alex from my care, I don’t see that either you or I need to do anything. But if the time comes, you can be sure that I will deal with your husband.”

  Your husband. Ellen repeated the words to herself, and tried to remember if Raymond had ever used Marsh’s first name. To the best of her memory, he hadn’t. Was there a reason for that? Or was it just Raymond’s way?

  Suddenly she realized how little she actually knew about Raymond Torres. Practically nothing, really. A thought drifted into her mind: did he feel as strange about his mother working for her as she did? “Raymond, may I ask you a question that has nothing to do with Alex at all?”

  Torres frowned slightly, then shrugged. “You can ask me anything, but I might not choose to answer.”

  Ellen felt herself flush red. “Of course,” she said. “It … well, it’s about your mother. You know, she’s working for me now, and—”

  “For you?” Torres broke in. Suddenly he put his pipe on the desk and leaned forward, his eyes blazing with interest. “When did that start?”

  Ellen gasped with embarrassment. “Oh, God, what have I done? I was sure you’d know.”

  “No,” Torres replied, shaking his head. Then he picked up his pipe and drew deeply on it. “And don’t worry,” he added. “There is a lot about my mother that I don’t know. Frankly, we don’t see each other that much, and we don’t agree on much, either. For instance, we don’t agree on her working.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Ellen groaned. “I’m sorry. I should never have hired her, should I? I didn’t really think it was right, but when Cynthia absolutely insisted, I … well, I …” She fell silent, acutely aware that she had begun babbling.

  “Cynthia,” Torres repeated, his expression darkening. “Well, Cynthia’s always had her way, hasn’t she? Whatever Cynthia wanted, she always got, and whatever she didn’t want, she always managed to keep well away from her.”

  Himself, Ellen suddenly thought. He’s talking about himself. He always wanted to go out with Cynthia, and she’d never give him the time of day. But was he still holding an old grudge? Surely he wasn’t, not after twenty years. And then he was smiling again, and the awkward moment had passed.

  “As for Mother, no, I didn’t know she was working for you, but it doesn’t matter. I’m quite capable of supporting her, but she’ll have none of it. I’m afraid,” he added, his brows arching, “that my mother doesn’t quite approve of me. She’s very much of the old country, despite the fact that she was born here, as were her parents and grandparents. She has yet to forgive me for my own success. So she supports herself by doing what she’s always done, and whom she works for is no concern of mine. If it helps, I think I’d rather have her working for you than for someone else. At least I can count on you to treat her decently.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone not—” Ellen began, but Torres cut her off with a wave of his hand.

  “I’m sure everyone treats her fine. But she tends to imagine things, and sees slights where none are meant. Now, why don’t we get back to Alex?”

  Though Ellen would have liked to talk more of María, the force of Raymond Torres’s personality engulfed her, and a moment later, as Torres wished, they were once more deeply involved in the possible meanings of Alex’s experiences in San Francisco.

  Alex opened his eyes and gazed at the monitors that surrounded him. The tests were over, and today, as he came up from the sedative, there had been none of the strange sounds and images that he had experienced before. He started to move, then remembered the restraints that held him in place so that he couldn’t accidentally disturb the labyrinth of wires that were attached to his skull.

  He heard the door open, and a few seconds later the doctor was gazing down at him. “How do you feel?”

  “Okay,” Alex replied. Then, as Torres began detaching him from the machinery: “Did you find out anything?”

  “Not yet,” Torres replied. “I’ll have to spend some time analyzing the data. But there’s something I want you to do. I want you to start wandering around La Paloma, just looking at things.”

  “I’ve done that,” Alex said. As the last of the wires came free, Torres released the restraints, and Alex sat up, stretching. “I’ve done that a lot with Lisa Cochran.”

  Torres shook his head. “I want you to do it alone,” he said. “I want you just to wander around, and let your eyes take things in. Don’t study things, don’t look for anything in particular. Just let your eyes see, and your mind react. Do you think you can do that?”

  “I guess so. But why?”

  “Call it an experiment,” Torres replied. “Let’s just see what happens, shall we? Something, somewhere in La Paloma, might trigger another memory, and maybe a pattern will emerge.”

  As his mother drove him home, Alex tried to figure out what kind of pattern Torres might be looking for, but could think of nothing.

  All he could do, he realized, was follow Torres’s instructions and see what happened.

  After Alex and Ellen left, Raymond Torres sat at his desk for a long time, studying the results of the tests Alex had just taken. Today, for the first time, the tests had been only that, and nothing more.

  No new data had been fed into Alex’s mind, no new attempts had been made to fill his empty memory.

  Instead, the electrical impulses that had been sent racing through his brain had been searching for something that Torres knew had to be there.

  Somewhere, deep in the recesses of Alex’s brain, there had to be a misconnection.

  It was, as far as Torres could see, the only explanation for what had happened to Alex in San Francisco: somehow, during the long hours of the surgery, a mistake had been made, and the result was that Alex had had an emotional response.

  He had cried.

  Ra
ymond Torres had never intended that Alex have an emotional response again.

  Emotions—feelings—were not part of his plan.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Well, I don’t give a damn what Ellen Lonsdale and Carol Cochran say, I say that Kate’s grounded for the next two weeks!” Alan Lewis rose shakily to his feet, an empty glass in his hand, and started toward the cupboard where he kept his liquor. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Marty Lewis asked, carefully keeping her voice level. “It’s not even noon yet.”

  “Not even noon yet,” Alan sneered in the mocking singsong voice he always took on when his drinking was becoming serious. “For Christ’s sake, Mart, it’s Sunday. Even you don’t have to go to work today.”

  “At least I go to work all week,” Marty replied, and then immediately wished she could retrieve her words. But it was too late.

  “Oh, back to that, are we?” Alan asked, wheeling around to fix her with eyes bleary from too much liquor and not enough sleep. “Well, for your information, it just happens that the kind of job I’m qualified for doesn’t grow on trees. I’m not like you—I can’t just wander out someday and come home with a job. ’Course, when I do come home with a job, it pays about ten times what yours does, but that doesn’t count, does it?”

  Marty took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Alan, I’m sorry I said that. It wasn’t fair. And we’re not talking about jobs anyway. We’re talking about Kate.”

  “Thass what I was talking about,” Alan agreed, his voice starting to slur. “You’re the one who changed the subject.” He grinned inanely, and poured several shots of bourbon into his glass, then maneuvered back to the kitchen table. “But I don’t give a damn what we talk about. The subject of our darling daughter is closed. She’s grounded, and thass that.”

  “No,” Marty said, “that is not that. As long as you’re drunk, any decisions about Kate will be made by me.”

  “Oh, ho, ho! My, aren’t we the high-and-mighty one? Well, let me tell you something, wife of mine! As long as I’m in this house, I’ll decide what’s best for my daughter.”

  Marty dropped any effort to cover her anger. “At the rate you’re going, you won’t be in this house in two more hours! And if you don’t pull yourself together, we won’t even be able to keep this house!”

  Alan lurched to his feet and towered over his wife. “Are you threatening me?”

  As his hand rose above his head, a third voice filled the kitchen.

  “If you hit her, I’ll kill you, Daddy.”

  Both the elder Lewises turned to see Kate standing in the kitchen doorway, her face streaked with tears but her eyes blazing with anger.

  “Kate, I told you I’d take care of this—” Marty began, but Alan cut in, his voice quavering.

  “Kill me? You’ll kill me? Nobody kills their daddy …”

  “You’re not my father,” Kate said, struggling to hold back her tears. “My father wouldn’t drink like you do.”

  Alan lurched toward her, but Marty grabbed his arm, holding him back. “Leave us alone, Kate,” she said. “Just go over to Bob’s or something. Just for a few hours. I’ll get all this straightened out.”

  Kate gazed steadily at her father, but when she spoke, her words were for her mother. “Will you send him back to the hospital?”

  “I … I don’t know …” Marty faltered, even though she already knew that the binge had gone on too long, and there was no other choice. Alan had switched from beer to bourbon on Friday afternoon, and all day yesterday, while Kate had been gone, he’d been steadily drinking. All day, and then all night. “I’ll do whatever has to be done. Just leave us alone. Please?”

  “Mom, let me help you,” Kate pleaded, but Marty shook her head.

  “No! I’ll take care of this! Just give me a few hours, and when you get back, everything will be fine.”

  Kate started to protest again, then changed her mind. After the last five years, she knew the last thing her mother needed during one of her father’s binges was an argument from her. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go. But I’ll call before I come back, and if he’s not gone, I won’t come home.”

  “You won’t even leave!” Alan Lewis suddenly roared. “You take one step out of this house, young lady, and you’ll regret it!”

  Kate ignored him, and walked out into the patio, letting the screen door slam behind her. A moment later she slammed the patio gate as well, and hurried away down the street, her hands clenched into fists as she tried to control her churning emotions.

  In the kitchen, Alan Lewis glared drunkenly at his wife. “Well, this is a fine fuckin’ mess you’ve made,” he muttered. “A man’s wife shouldn’t turn his little girl against him.”

  “I didn’t,” Marty hissed. “And she’s not against you. She loves you very much, except when you get like this. And so do I.”

  “If you loved me—”

  “Stop it, Alan!” Marty’s voice rose to a shout. “Just stop it! None of this is my fault, and none of it is Kate’s. It’s your fault, Alan! Do you hear me? Your fault!” She stormed out of the kitchen and upstairs to the bedroom her husband had never appeared in last night, shutting the door behind her and locking it.

  She had to get control of herself. Right now, shouting at him would accomplish nothing. She had to calm herself down and deal with the situation.

  He’d be upstairs in a minute, pounding on the door and alternately begging her forgiveness and threatening her. And she’d have to get through it all once more, and try to talk him into letting her drive him to the hospital in Palo Alto to check himself into the alcoholism unit. Or, if worse came to worst, call them herself, and have them come for Alan with an ambulance. That, though, had only happened once, and she prayed it wouldn’t happen again.

  She went into the bathroom and washed her face with cold water. Any second now, he’d be at the door, and the argument would begin. Only this time, it wouldn’t be about Kate. Kate, at least, would be out of it. Now it would be the drinking again.

  Five minutes went by, and nothing happened.

  Finally Marty opened the bedroom door and stepped out to the landing at the top of the stairs. From below, there was only silence. “Alan?” she called.

  There was no answer.

  She started down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to call her husband once more. When there was still no answer, she headed for the kitchen. Perhaps he’d passed out.

  The kitchen was empty.

  Oh, God, Marty groaned to herself. Now what? She poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot she always kept hot on the stove in the hopes that Alan would choose it over alcohol, and tried to figure out what to do.

  At least he hadn’t taken his car. If he had, she’d have heard him pulling out of the garage. Still, she checked the garage anyway. Both cars were still there.

  Maybe she should call the police. No. If he’d taken his car, she would have, but as long as he was on foot, he couldn’t hurt anyone. In fact, one of the La Paloma police would probably pick him up within the hour anyway.

  Would they bring him home, or take him to the hospital? Or maybe even to jail?

  Marty decided she didn’t really care. Yesterday, last night, and this morning had been just too exhausting. It was time for Alan to clean up his own messes. She’d call no one, and do nothing about finding him, at least until this evening. Then, if he still wasn’t home, she’d start looking.

  Her decision made, she began cleaning up the kitchen, starting with Alan’s liquor. She drained the half tumbler of bourbon into the sink, then began taking the bottles off the cupboard shelf.

  One by one, she emptied them, too, into the drain, and threw the bottles in the trash basket by the back door.

  Thirty minutes later, when the kitchen was spotless, she started on the rest of the house.

  Alex wandered through the village, doing his best to follow Raymond Torres’s instructions to keep his eyes open and his mind clear. But so far, nothing had happened. T
he village seemed familiar now, and everything seemed to be in the right place, and surrounded by the right things. After an hour, he stopped in a complex of little shops that specialized in the expensive items that so intrigued the computer people in town.

  In one window there was a small glass sphere that seemed to have nothing in it but water. Then, when he looked closer, he realized that there were tiny shrimp swimming in the water, and a little bit of seaweed. It was, according to the card next to it, a fully balanced and self-contained ecosystem that would live on in the sealed globe for years, needing only light to survive. He watched it for a few minutes, fascinated, and then a thought came into his head.

  It’s like my brain. Sealed up, with no way to get at what’s inside. A moment later he turned away and continued up La Paloma Drive until he came to the Square.

  He stopped to gaze at the giant oak, and found himself wondering if he’d ever climbed the tree, or carved his initials in its trunk, or tied a swing to its lower branches. But if he had, the memories were gone now.

  And then, very slowly, things began to change. His eyes fixed on the base of the tree, and everything around him seemed to fade away, almost as if the coastal fog had drifted down from the hillsides and swallowed up everything except himself and the tree.

  Once again, as at the mission in San Francisco, images began to come into his mind, and something he had only vaguely remembered when he came home from the Institute was suddenly clearly visible.

  There was a rope hanging from the lowest limb of the tree, and at the end of the rope, a body hung.

  Whose body?

  Around the body, men on horseback were laughing.

  And then a sudden pain lashed through his brain, and the whispering began, as it had begun in the cemetery at the mission in San Francisco.

  The words were in Spanish, but he understood them clearly.

  “They take our land and our homes. They take our lives. Venganza … venganza …”