Brain Child (23 page)

Kate considered a moment, then shook her head. Her hand trembling, she opened the door of the Porsche and got out. With Bob behind her, she started up the walk to the front door.

When she found it unlocked, she breathed a sigh of relief. One thing she was absolutely certain of—her mother would never leave the house unlocked. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“Mom? I’m home!” she called out. An empty silence hung over the house, and Kate’s heart began beating faster. “Mom?” she called again, louder this time. She glanced nervously at Bob. “Something’s wrong,” she whispered. “If the door’s unlocked, Mom should be here.”

“Maybe she’s upstairs,” Bob suggested. “You want me to go look?”

Kate nodded silently, and Bob started up the stairs. A moment later he was back. “Nobody up there,” he told her. “Let’s look in the kitchen.”

“No,” Kate said. Then, her voice quavering, she spoke again. “Let’s call the police.”

“The police?” Bob echoed. “Why?”

“Because I’m scared,” Kate said, no longer trying to control the fear in her voice. “Something’s wrong, and I don’t want to go into the kitchen!”

“Aw, come on, Kate,” Bob told her, starting down the hall toward the closed kitchen door. “Nothing’s wrong at all. She probably just called an ambulance and—” He fell silent as he pushed open the kitchen door. “Oh, God,” he whispered. For just a moment he stood perfectly still. Then he stepped back and let the door swing closed. He turned unsteadily around, his face ashen. “Kate,” he whispered. “Your mom—I think … She looks like she’s dead.”

Kate stared at him for a moment while the words slowly registered in her mind. Then, without thinking, she started down the hall, pushing her way past Bob and into the kitchen. Wildly, she scanned the room, and then found what she was looking for.

Her knees buckled, and she sank sobbing to the floor.

Roscoe Finnerty glanced up at Tom Jackson. “You okay?”

Jackson nodded. “I can handle it.” He stared at Marty Lewis’s body for a moment, trying to get a handle on what he was feeling. It wasn’t at all like last spring, when he’d almost fallen apart at the sight of Alex Lonsdale’s broken body trapped in the wreckage of the Mustang. No, this was different. Except for the look on her face, and the pallor of her skin, this woman could be sleeping. He knelt and pressed his finger to her neck.

She wasn’t sleeping.

“What do you think?” he asked, getting to his feet once more.

“Until I talk to the kids, I don’t think anything.” A siren sounded, and a few seconds later an ambulance pulled into the driveway. Two medics came into the room and repeated the procedure Finnerty and Jackson had gone through when they’d arrived a few minutes earlier. “Don’t move her,” Finnerty told them. “Just make sure she’s dead, then don’t do anything till the detectives get up here. Tom, you get outside and make sure none of the rubberneckers try to come inside, and I’ll have a talk with the kids.”

Finnerty left the kitchen and went back to the living room, where he found Kate Lewis and Bob Carey still sitting on the sofa where he’d left them, Kate sobbing softly while Bob tried to comfort her.

“How’s she doing?” Finnerty asked. Bob looked dazedly up at him.

“How do you
think
she’s doing?” he demanded, his voice cracking. “Her mom’s … her mom’s …” And then he fell silent as his own emotions overcame him and he choked back a sob.

“It’s all right,” Finnerty told him. “Just try to take it easy.” He searched his memory; then it came to him. “You’re Bob Carey, aren’t you?”

Bob nodded, and seemed to calm down a little.

“Have you called your folks yet? Do they know what’s happened?” Bob shook his head. “Okay. I’ll call them and have them come over here. Then I’d like to talk to you. Will that be okay?”

“Nothing happened,” Bob said. “We just came over here, found her, and called the cops.”

Finnerty patted the boy on the shoulder. “Okay. We’ll get the details in a little while.” He found the phone and the phone book, and spent the next five minutes assuring Dave Carey that his son was all right. Then he went back to the living room.

Slowly he pieced together the story. The longer he
listened, the more he was sure he knew what had happened. It was a story he’d heard over and over during his years as a cop, but this was the first time in his experience that the story had ever ended in death. Only when Dave Carey arrived did Finnerty return to the kitchen.

Two detectives were there, and Finnerty watched in silence as they went over the room, methodically looking for clues as to what might have happened there.

“How’s it look?” he asked when Bill Ryan finally nodded to him.

Ryan shrugged. “Without talking to anybody, I’d say it was premeditated, and pretty cold. No signs of a fight, no signs of forced entry, no signs of rape.”

“If what the kids say is true, it was the husband. He was drunk, and they were having an argument when the girl left this morning. In fact, that’s why she left—her father was pissed at her, and her mother was trying to get him to lay off. The girl thinks her mother was going to try to get her father into detox today.”

“And he didn’t want to go.”

“Right.”

Suddenly the back door opened, and Tom Jackson appeared, his right arm supporting a bleary-eyed man whose hands were trembling and whose face was drawn. Without being told, Finnerty knew immediately who he was.

“Mr. Lewis?”

Alan Lewis nodded mutely, his eyes fastened on the sheet-covered form on the floor. “Oh, God,” he whispered.

“Read him his rights,” Ryan said. “Let’s see if we can get a confession right now.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Carol Cochran sighed. “I just can’t believe that Alan would have killed Marty, no matter how drunk he was.”

It was a little after nine, and the Cochrans had been at the Lonsdales’ since six-thirty. All through a dispirited
dinner which had gone all but untouched, the Cochrans and the Lonsdales had been discussing what had happened in La Paloma that day. Now, as they sat in the still only partially furnished living room, with Lisa and Alex upstairs and Kim asleep in the guest room, the discussion threatened to go on right through the evening.

“Can’t we talk about something else?” Ellen wondered, although she knew the answer. All over La Paloma, there was only one thing being talked about tonight: did Alan Lewis kill his wife, or did someone else?

“Don’t ever underestimate what a drunk can do,” Marsh Lonsdale told Carol, ignoring his wife’s question.

“But Alan was always a harmless drunk. My God, Marsh, Alan’s not very effectual when he’s sober. And when he’s drunk, all he does is pass out.”

“Hardly,” Jim Cochran observed. “Last time I played golf with him, he wrapped his putter around a tree, and took a swing at me when I suggested maybe he ought to lay off the sauce.”

“That’s still a far cry from killing your wife,” Carol insisted.

“But there weren’t any signs of a struggle,” Marsh reminded her. “As far as the police can tell, Marty knew whoever killed her.”

Carol shook her head dismissively. “Marty knew everybody in town, just like all the rest of us. Besides, she always felt safe in that house, although God alone knows why.” Her eyes scanned the Lonsdales’ living room, and she shuddered slightly. “I’m sorry, but these old places always give me the willies.”

“Carol!”

“Honey, Ellen and I have been friends long enough so I don’t have to lie to her. Besides, I told her when she first started looking at this place that if she didn’t do something drastic to it within six months, I’d never visit her again. I mean, just look at it—it looks like some kind of monastery or something. I always feel that there
ought to be chanting going on in the background. And what about the windows? All covered up with wrought iron—like a prison!” Suddenly running out of steam, she fell into a slightly embarrassed silence, then grinned crookedly at Ellen. “Well, it’s what I think.”

“And in a way, you’re right,” Ellen agreed. “Except that I happen to like all those things you hate. But I don’t see what it has to do with Marty.”

“It’s just that she always said that old fortress made her feel safe, and look what happened to her.”

“Honey,” Jim protested, “murders can happen anywhere. It didn’t matter where the house was, or what it looked like.”

Once more, Carol sighed. “I know. And I also know it looks as though Alan must have done it. But I don’t care. I just don’t think that’s the way it happened at all.”

Suddenly Lisa appeared in the wide archway that separated the living room from the foyer, and the four adults fell guiltily silent.

“Are you still talking about Mrs. Lewis?” Lisa asked uncertainly. Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “Can I … well, is it all right if I sit down here and listen?”

“I thought you and Alex were listening to some records—”

“I don’t want to,” Lisa said, and the sharpness in her voice made the Lonsdales and the Cochrans exchange a curious glance. It was Ellen who finally spoke.

“Lisa, did something happen up there? Did you and Alex have a fight about something?” Lisa hesitated, then shook her head, but it seemed to Ellen the girl was holding something back. “Tell us what happened,” she urged. “Whatever it is, it can’t be so bad that you can’t tell us about it.
Did
you two have a fight?”

“With Alex?” Lisa suddenly blurted. “How can you have a fight with Alex? He doesn’t care about anything, so he won’t fight about anything!” Suddenly she was crying. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that but—”

“But it’s true,” Marsh said softly. He got up and went
to Lisa, putting his arms around her. “It’s okay, Lisa. We all know what Alex is like, and how frustrating it is. Now, tell us what happened.”

Somewhat mollified, Lisa sat down and dabbed at her eyes with her father’s handkerchief. “We were listening to records, and I wanted to talk about Mrs. Lewis, but Alex wouldn’t. I mean, he’d talk, but all he’d say were weird things. It’s like he doesn’t care what happened to her, or who did it. He … he doesn’t even care that she’s dead.” Her eyes fixed on her mother. “Mom, he said he never even met Mrs. Lewis, and even if he had, it wouldn’t matter. He said everybody dies, and it doesn’t make any difference how.” Burying her face in her handkerchief, she began sobbing quietly.

There was a long silence in the room. Carol Cochran moved over to sit next to her daughter, while Marsh, his expression cold, gave his wife a long look. “It … it doesn’t mean anything—” Ellen began, but he cut her off.

“No matter what it means, he doesn’t need to say things like that. He’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut sometimes.” He turned and started toward the foyer and the stairs.

“Marsh, leave him alone,” Ellen protested, but it was too late. All of them could hear the echo of his feet tramping up the stairs. Ellen, her voice trembling, turned back to Lisa. “Really, Lisa,” she said again, “it doesn’t mean anything.…”

Marsh walked into Alex’s room without knocking, his breath coming in short, angry rasps, and found his son lying on the bed, a book propped against his drawn-up knees. From the stereo, the precise notes of
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
echoed off the bare walls. Alex glanced up at his father, then put the book aside.

“Are the Cochrans gone?”

“No, they’re not,” Marsh grated. “No thanks to you. What the hell did you say to Lisa?” Then, before Alex could answer, he went on, his voice icily cold. “Never
mind. I know what you said. What I want to know is why you said it. She’s down there crying, and I can’t say that I blame her.”

“Crying? How come?”

Marsh stared at Alex’s serene face. Was it possible the boy really didn’t know? And then, as he made a conscious effort to bring his breath under control, he realized that it was, indeed, quite possible that Alex didn’t know what effect his words would have on Lisa.

“Because of what you said,” he replied. “About Mrs. Lewis, and about dying.”

Alex shrugged. “I didn’t know Mrs. Lewis. Lisa wanted to talk about her, but how could I? If you don’t know someone, you can’t talk about them, can you?”

“It wasn’t just that, Alex,” Marsh said. “It was what you said about dying. That everybody dies, and that it doesn’t matter how they die.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Alex countered. “Everybody does die. And if everybody dies, why should it be a big deal?”

“Alex, Marty Lewis was murdered.”

Alex nodded, but then said, “But she’s still dead, isn’t she?”

Marsh took a deep breath, and when he spoke, he chose his words carefully. “Alex, there are some things you have to understand, even though they don’t have any meaning to you right now. They have to do with feelings and emotions.”

“I know about emotions,” Alex replied. “I just don’t know what they feel like.”

“Exactly. But other people do know, and you used to know. And someday, when you’re all well again, you’ll feel them too. But in the meantime, you have to be careful, because you can hurt people’s feelings by what you say.”

“Even if you tell them the truth?” Alex asked.

“Even if you tell them the truth. You have to remember that right now, you don’t know the full truth about everything. For instance, you don’t know that you can
hurt people mentally as well as physically. And that’s how you hurt Lisa. You hurt her feelings. She cares a great deal about you, and you made her feel as though you don’t care about anything.”

Alex said nothing. Watching him, Marsh couldn’t see whether the boy was thinking about his words or not. And then, once again, Alex spoke.

“Dad, I don’t think I do care about anything. Not the way other people do, anyway. Isn’t that what’s still wrong with me? Isn’t that why Dr. Torres says I’ll never get well? Because I don’t have all those feelings and emotions that other people have, and I never will?”

The hopelessness of Alex’s words was only reinforced by the tonelessness of his voice. Suddenly Marsh wanted to reach out and hold Alex as he’d held him when he was a baby. And yet he knew it would do no good. It wouldn’t make Alex feel more secure or more loved, for Alex didn’t feel insecure, and didn’t feel unloved.

He felt nothing. And there was nothing Marsh could do about it.