John Saul - Brain Child

Again Torres nodded, this time with obvious reluctance. “I have to agree that that is quite possible, yes.” Then, seeing the look of fear and confusion on Ellen’s face, he went on: “Believe me, Ellen, Alex has done nothing wrong. In all likelihood, I’ll be able to help him. He’ll be all right.”

“But he won’t,” Marsh said quietly, drawing Ellen to her feet. “Dr. Torres, please don’t try to hold out any more false hope to my wife. The best thing she can do right now is try to accept the fact that Alex died last May. As of this moment, I do not know exactly who the person is who looks like my son and has been living in my house, but I do know that it is not Alex.” As Ellen began quietly sobbing once more, he led her toward the door. “I don’t know what to do now, Dr. Torres, but you may rest assured that should Alex come home, I will call the police and explain to them that Alex — or whoever he is — is legally in your custody, and that any questions they have should be directed to you. He is not my son anymore, Dr. Torres. He hasn’t been since the day I brought him to you.” He turned away, and led Ellen out of the office.

They were halfway back to La Paloma before Ellen finally spoke. Her voice was hoarse from her crying. “Is he really dead, Marsh?” she asked. “Was he telling us the truth?”

“I don’t know,” Marsh replied. It was the same question he’d been grappling with ever since they’d left the Institute, and he still had no answer. “He was telling us the truth, yes. I believe he did exactly what he says he did. But as for Alex, I wish I could tell you. Who knows what death really is? Legally, Alex could have been declared dead before we ever took him down to Palo Alto. According to the brain scans, there was no activity, and that’s a legal criterion for death.”

“But he was still breathing—”

“No, he wasn’t. Not really. Our machines were breathing for him. And now Raymond Torres has invented new machines, and Alex is walking and talking. But I don’t know if he’s Alex. He doesn’t act like Alex, and he doesn’t think like Alex, and he doesn’t respond like Alex. For weeks now, I’ve had this strange feeling that Alex wasn’t there, and apparently I was right. Alex isn’t there. All that’s there is whatever Raymond Torres constructed in Alex’s body.”

“But it is Alex’s body,” Ellen insisted.

“But isn’t that all it is?” Marsh asked, his voice reflecting the pain he was feeling. “Isn’t it the part we bury when the spirit’s gone? And Alex’s spirit is gone, Ellen. Or if it isn’t, then it’s trapped so deep inside the wreckage of his brain that it will never escape.”

Ellen said nothing for a long time, staring out into the gathering gloom of the evening. “Then why do I still love him?” she asked at last. “Why do I still feel that he’s my son?”

“I don’t know,” Marsh replied. Then: “But I’m afraid I lied back there. I was angry, and I was hurt, and I didn’t want to believe what I was hearing, and for a little while, I wanted Alex to be dead. And part of me is absolutely certain that he is.” He fell silent, but Ellen was certain he had more to say, so she sat quietly waiting. After a few moments, as if there had been no lapse of time, Marsh went on. “But part of me says that as long as he’s living and breathing, he’s alive, and he’s my son. I love him too, Ellen.”

For the first time in months, Ellen slid across the seat and pressed close to her husband. “Oh, God, Marsh,” she whispered. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “In fact, I’m not sure there’s anything we can do, except wait for Alex to come home.”

He didn’t tell Ellen that he wasn’t at all sure Alex would ever come home again.

It was not a large house, but it was set well back from the street. Though he couldn’t read the address, Alex knew he was at the right place. It had been simple, really. When he’d come into Palo Alto, he’d shut all images of La Paloma out of his mind, then concentrated on the idea of going home. After that, he’d merely followed the impulses his brain sent him at each intersection until he’d finally come to a stop in front of the Moorish-style house he was now absolutely certain belonged to Dr. Raymond Torres. He studied it for a few moments, then turned into the driveway, parking the car on the concrete apron that widened out behind the house.

From the street, the car was no longer visible.

Alex got out of the car, closed the driver’s door, then opened the trunk.

He picked up the shotgun, holding it in his right hand while he used his left to slam the trunk lid. Carrying the gun almost casually, he crossed to the back door of the house and tried the knob. It was locked.

He glanced around the patio behind the house, uncertain of what he was looking for, but sure that he would recognize it when he saw it.

It was a large earthenware planter, exploding with the vivid colors of impatiens in full bloom. In the center of the planter, wrapped neatly in aluminum foil and well-hidden by the profuse foliage, he found the spare key to the house. Letting himself inside, he moved confidently through the kitchen and dining room, then down a short hall to the den.

This, he was sure, was the room in which Dr. Torres spent most of his time. There was a fireplace in one corner, and a battered desk that was in stark contrast to the gleaming sleekness of the desk Torres used at the Brain Institute. And in equal contrast to the Institute office was the clutter of the den. Everywhere were books and journals, stacked high on the desk and shoved untidily onto the shelves that lined the walls. Most were medical books and technical journals relating to Torres’s work, but some were not. Resting the gun on its butt in the corner behind the door, Alex began a closer examination of the library, knowing already what he was looking for, and knowing that he would find it.

There were several old histories of California, detailing the settling of the area by the Spanish-Mexicans, and the subsequent ceding of the territory to the United States. Tucked between two thick tomes was the thin leather-bound volume, its spine intricately tooled in gold, that Alex was looking for. Handling the book carefully, he removed it from the shelf, then sat down in the worn leather chair that stood between the fireplace and the desk. He opened it to the first page, and examined the details of the illuminations that had been painstakingly worked around the ornate lettering.

It was a family tree, detailing the history of the family of Don Roberto de Meléndez y Ruiz, his antecedents, and his descendants. Alex scanned the pages quickly until he came to the end.

The last entry was Raymond Torres, son of María and Carlos Torres.

It was through his mother, María Ruiz, that Raymond Torres traced his lineage back to Don Roberto, through Don Roberto’s only surviving son, Alejandro. Below the box containing Raymond Torres’s name, there was another box.

It was empty.

Alex closed the book and laid it on the hearth in front of the fireplace, then moved on to Torres’s desk. Without hesitation, he pulled the bottom-right-hand drawer open, reached into its depths, and pulled out a nondescript notebook.

In the notebook, neatly penned in a precise hand, was Raymond Torres’s plan for creating the son he had never fathered.

It was getting dark when Alex heard the car pull up. He retrieved the gun from the corner behind the door. When Raymond Torres entered the den a few moments later, it lay almost carelessly in Alex’s lap, though his right forefinger was curled around the trigger. Torres paused in the doorway, frowning thoughtfully, then smiled.