Brain Child (6 page)

“Not really. Apparently at least one car went off the road, and we don’t know how many people were in it—”

“Maybe I’d better go up there.”

There was a hesitation; then: “The EMT’s are with the ambulance, Doctor.…”

Now it was Marsh who hesitated, then grimaced slightly. Even after five years, he found it hard to accept that the emergency medical technicians were, indeed, better trained to handle such situations than he himself was. “I get the picture, Barb. Say no more. See you in a few minutes.” He hung up the phone, then
turned to Ellen, who stood behind a chair, both hands gripping its back.

“It’s Alex, isn’t it?” she breathed.

“Alex?” Marsh repeated. What could have put that idea into Ellen’s head? “Why on earth should it have anything to do with Alex?”

Ellen did her best to steady herself. “I just have a feeling, that’s all. I’ve had it for about half an hour. It
is
Alex, isn’t it?”

“No one knows who it is yet,” Marsh replied. “It’s an automobile accident, but that doesn’t mean it’s Alex.” His words, though, did nothing to dissipate the fear in her eyes, and despite the tension that still hung between them, he took her in his arms. “Honey, don’t do this to yourself.” When Ellen made no reply, he reluctantly released her and started toward their bedroom, but Ellen held onto his arm, and when she spoke, her eyes, as well as her words, were pleading.

“If it isn’t Alex, why did they call you? There’s an intern on duty, isn’t there?”

Marsh nodded. “But they don’t know how many people might have been hurt. They might need me, and I
am
on call.” He gently disengaged her hand, but Ellen followed him into the bedroom.

“I want to go with you,” she said while he began dressing.

Marsh shook his head. “Ellen, there’s no reason—”

“There
is
a reason,” Ellen protested, struggling to keep her voice level, but not succeeding. “I have a feeling, and—”

“And it’s only a feeling,” Marsh insisted, and Ellen flinched at the dismissive tone of his words. He relented, and once more put his arms around his wife. “Honey, please. Think about it. Automobile accidents happen all the time. The odds of this one involving Alex are next to nothing. And I can’t deal with whatever’s happening if I have to take care of you too.”

His words hurt her, but Ellen knew he was right. Deliberately she made herself stop shaking and stepped
away from him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that … Oh, never mind. Go.”

Marsh offered her a smile. “Now, that’s my girl.”

Though her husband’s smile did nothing to alleviate her pain, Ellen picked up his wallet and keys from the dresser and handed them to him. “Marsh?” she asked, then waited until he met her eyes before going on. “As soon as you know what’s happened, have someone call me. I don’t need details—I just need to know it’s not Alex.”

“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 noise—

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—”