John Saul - Brain Child

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?”

“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.”

“Why?” Alex asked. “Why did he come back?”

María Torres stared at him for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible, but nonetheless her words seemed to fill the room. “Venganza,” she said. “He came for vengeance on the thieves and the murderers. Even when he was dying, he said he would never leave. From beyond the grave, he said. From beyond the grave, venganza.”

Alex emerged from the little house into the blazing sun of the September morning. He began walking through the village, pausing here and there, turning over the bits and pieces of the story María Torres had told him, examining them carefully, searching for the flaw. His mind told him that the answer he had come up with was impossible, but still the pieces of the story matched his strange memories too well. He knew, though, where he would find the ultimate truth, and what he would do once he found it.

The phone on his desk jangled loudly. For a moment Marsh was tempted to let it ring. Then he realized the call was coming in on his private line. Only a few people knew that number, and even they used it only when it was an emergency.

“I trust you aren’t going to force me to implement the provisions of the release,” Raymond Torres’s cold voice said.

“How did you get this number?”

“I’ve had this number since the moment I took on your son’s case, Dr. Lonsdale. Not that it matters. The only thing that matters is that your wife was to bring Alex to me today.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Dr. Torres,” Marsh replied. “We’ve discussed the matter, and it’s my decision that you can do Alex no more good. I’m afraid he won’t be coming back there anymore.”

There was a long silence, and when Torres’s voice finally came over the line again, its tone had hardened even further. “And I’m afraid that’s not your decision to make, Dr. Lonsdale.”

“Nonetheless,” Marsh replied, “that’s the decision I’ve made. And I wouldn’t advise you to try to come and get him, or have anyone else try to come and get him either. I’m his father, Dr. Torres, and despite your release, I have some rights.”

“I see,” Torres said, and Marsh thought he heard a sigh come through the phone. “Very well, I’m willing to strike a compromise with you. Bring Alex down this afternoon, and I will explain to you exactly what my procedures have been up until now, and why I think it’s necessary that he come back to the Institute.”

“Not a chance. Until I know exactly what you’ve done, you won’t see Alex again.”

In the privacy of his office, Raymond Torres slumped tiredly behind his desk. Too many hours of too little sleep had finally taken their toll, and he knew he was no longer thinking clearly. But he also knew that letting Alex leave the Institute yesterday had been a mistake. Whatever the consequences, he had to get him back. “Very well,” he said. “What time can I expect you?”

Marsh glanced at his appointment book. “A couple of hours?”

“Fine. And after you’ve heard what I have to say, I’m sure you’ll agree that Alex should be back here.” The line went dead in Marsh’s hand.

Alex paused at the garden gate, and stared at the high vine-covered wall that separated the patio from the street. Then, making up his mind, he went into the patio, then into the house. The house, as he had hoped it would be, was empty. He went to the garage and began searching through the mound of boxes that still sat, unpacked, against the back wall. Each of them was neatly marked with its contents, and it didn’t take him long to find the two he was looking for.