vines, espaliered on small trellises. Alex studied the picture carefully.
It was exactly as he had thought the wall should look when his parents had first brought him home from the Institute. But in the photograph of the same wall, taken forty-odd years ago, the vines had long since grown wild, covering the wall with a tangle of vegetation that completely obliterated the insets.
On the next page, he found Valerie Benson’s house. It bore little resemblance to what it had once been. Over the years, it had twice burned, and both times, during the rebuilding, walls had been moved and roof lines changed. The only thing that had not been altered beyond recognition was the patio, but even that had not completely survived the remodeling.
In 1927, a fishpond, fed by a waterfall, had been added.
Once again Alex studied the old drawing and the more recent photograph.
Once again it was the old drawing that looked right to him, that depicted the patio as he’d thought he remembered it only that morning.
He closed the book, and sat still for several minutes, trying to find an answer to the puzzle that was forming in his mind. At last he stood up and carried the volume over to Arlette Pringle’s desk. The librarian took it from him and carefully slid it back into its position in the locked cabinet behind her desk.
“Miss Pringle?” Alex asked. “Is there any way to tell when the last time I looked at that book was?”
Arlette Pringle pursed her lips. “Why, Alex, what on earth would you want to know that for?”
“I … well, I don’t remember so many things, but some of the things in that book look kind of familiar. And I just thought it might help if I could find out when the last time I looked at it was.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Miss Pringle mused, wondering if it was worth her while to dig through the old records of the locked cabinet. Then, remembering once more what had happened to Alex only a few months ago, she made up her mind. “Of course,” she said. “If it were in the open stacks, it would be impossible, but I keep records of every book that goes in and out of that cabinet. Lets have a look.” From the bottom drawer of her desk she took a thick ledger and began flipping through its pages. A minute later she smiled bleakly at Alex. “I’m sorry, Alex. According to my records, you’ve never seen that book before. In fact, nobody but Cynthia Evans has looked at it for the last five years, and before that, you and your friends were all so young I wouldn’t have let you touch it anyway.”
Alex frowned, then wordlessly turned and left the library. He walked home slowly, lost in thought. As he approached his house he finally made up his mind, and, though he was already tired, trudged on up Hacienda Drive.
He stopped once to rest, at the curve where only a few months ago his car had crashed through the safety barrier and plunged into the canyon below. He stayed there for nearly half an hour, searching his mind for memories of the crash.
He knew what had happened: he’d been told the details many times since he’d awakened in the hospital. There had been a party, and he and Lisa had had a quarrel, and she had left. A few minutes later he’d gone after her, but he’d been driving too fast, and had to swerve to avoid hitting her. And that was when he’d gone off the road.
But something seemed to be missing. Deep in his mind, he was sure there was one more image — a fleeting glimpse of something he couldn’t quite grasp — that was the real reason for his accident.
Somehow, he knew that there was more to it than avoiding Lisa. There had been something else — someone else — whom he had also swerved to avoid.
But who? He couldn’t bring the image into focus, couldn’t quite identify it.
Struggling to his feet, he went on toward the Evanses’ mansion and the hills beyond.
Marsh Lonsdale sat in the records office of the Medical Center and punched angrily at the keys of the computer. The screen sat like a Cyclops on the desk in front of him. There were times, of course, when he thanked all the various gods he could think of for the computer system that had been put in the Center five years earlier, but there were times — and this was one of them — when he wished that the microprocessor had never been invented.
“You have to have a special degree just to operate this damned thing,” he muttered. From the file cabinet, Barbara Fannon smiled sympathetically.
“It doesn’t respond to cursing,” she told him. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll pull it up for you.” Gently nudging him aside, she sat down and put her fingers on the keyboard.
“Alex,” Marsh said. “All I want is the medical records for my own son, and this damned machine won’t give them to me.”
“Don’t be silly,” Barbara told him. “You just have to ask it politely, in terms it understands.” She tapped at the keyboard for a few moments, and the screen came to life. “There you are. Just push this button, and it will scroll right on down, from the day he was born until the last time he was here.” She stood up, relinquishing the chair to Marsh once again, and went back to her filing.
Marsh began scrolling through the record, paying little attention to anything until he suddenly came to the end of the file. The last entry was for a routine checkup that Alex had undergone the previous April. He gazed irritably at the screen for a moment, then glared at Barbara Fannon’s back. “Are we really five months behind in the records?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if we’re really five months behind in the records,” Marsh repeated. “This is September, and the last entry in Alex’s file is for his checkup in April. That’s five months.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Barbara replied. “We haven’t even been twenty-four hours behind in the last three years. Usually everything that happens to a patient is in the records within two or three hours. Let me see.” She bent over Marsh’s shoulder and began tapping on the keyboard once more, but this time nothing happened. The record simply came to an abrupt end.
“See?”
“I see that something’s wrong, and it could be any number of things. Now, why don’t you just go back to your office and get back to administering this place, and I’ll figure out what’s happened to Alex’s records. If I can’t get them out of the computer, I’ll bring you the originals from downstairs, but that will take a while. All right?”
Reluctantly Marsh got up and started out of the office, but Barbara Fannon stopped him. “Marsh, is something wrong? With Alex, I mean?”
“I don’t know,” Marsh replied. “I just have a bad feeling about him, and I don’t like Torres. I want to go over his records and see exactly what was done, that’s all.”
“All right,” Barbara Fannon sighed. “Then at least I know what I’m looking for. I’ll have something for you as soon as possible.”
But an hour later, when she came into his office, her expression was both puzzled and worried. “I can’t find them,” she said.
Marsh looked up from the report he was revising. “They’re not in the computer?”
“Worse than that,” Barbara replied, seating herself in the chair opposite Marsh and handing him a file folder. “They aren’t here at all.”
Frowning, Marsh opened the folder, which had Alex’s name neatly typed at the top. Inside was a single sheet of paper, with one sentence typed on it:
Contents of this file transferred to the Institute for the Human Brain, by authority of Marshall Lonsdale, M.D., Director.
Marsh’s frown deepened. “What the hell does this mean?”
Barbara shrugged. “I assume it means that you sent all the records relating to the accident to Palo Alto, and they never came back.”
Marsh reached over and pressed a key on the intercom. “Frank, can you come in here?” A moment later Frank Mallory came into the office, and Marsh handed him the sheet of paper. “Do you know anything about this?”
Mallory glanced at it, then shrugged. “Sure. All the records went to Palo Alto. Torres needed them.”
“But why didn’t they come back? And why didn’t we keep copies?”
Now Mallory, too, was frowning. “I … well, I guess I thought they had. They should have been here months ago, along with copies of what was done down there. It’s all part of Alex’s medical history.”
