“But then I had to fit the memories in.
“Alex Lonsdale has no memories. None at all, because he’s dead. But I was remembering things, and the answer had to be the same. What I was remembering had to have been programmed into me too, along with all the rest of the data. From there, it wasn’t hard to figure out who I really am.”
“My son,” Torres said softly. “The son I never had.”
“No,” Alex replied. “I am not your son, Dr. Torres. I am you. Inside my head are all the memories you grew up with. They’re not my memories, Dr. Torres. They’re yours. Don’t you understand?”
“It’s the same thing,” Torres said, but Alex shook his head.
“No. It’s not the same thing, because if it were, I would be about to kill my father. But I’m you, Dr. Torres, so I guess you are about to kill yourself.”
His hands steady, Alex raised the shotgun, leveled it at Raymond Torres, and squeezed the trigger. Alex watched as Raymond Torres’s head was nearly torn from his body by the force of the buckshot that exploded from the gun’s barrel.
As he left Torres’s house, the phone began ringing, but Alex ignored it.
Getting into Torres’s car — his own car, now — he started back toward La Paloma.
All of them were dead — Valerie Benson, Marty Lewis, and Cynthia Evans. All of them dead, except one.
Ellen Lonsdale was still alive.
Roscoe Finnerty carefully replaced the phone on its hook, and turned to face the Lonsdales once more.
Ellen, as she had been since they got home, was sitting on the sofa, her face pale, her hands trembling. Her eyes, reddened from weeping, blinked nervously, and she seemed to have become incapable of speech.
Marsh, on the other hand, wore a demeanor of calm that belied the inner turmoil he was feeling. Before beginning to answer Finnerty’s questions, he had tried to think carefully about what he should say, but in the end he’d decided to tell the officers the truth.
First, they had asked about the gun, and Marsh had led them to the garage, and the box where he was sure his shotgun was still stored.
It was gone.
Once more, he remembered Torres’s words: “Alex is totally incapable of killing anyone.”
But up the street, Cynthia and Carolyn Evans had both been cut down by a shotgun, and someone matching Alex’s description had been seen carrying a shotgun into this house.
Torres had been wrong.
Slowly Marsh began telling the two officers, Finnerty and Jackson, what Torres had told him only an hour or so earlier. They’d listened politely, then insisted on checking Marsh’s story with Raymond Torres. When they’d called his office, they’d been told the director of the Institute had left for the day. Only after identifying themselves had they been able to obtain Torres’s home phone number.
“Well, he’s not there either,” Finnerty said. Then: “Dr. Lonsdale, I don’t want to seem to be pushing you, but I think the most important thing right now is to find Alex. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
Marsh shook his head. “If he didn’t go to Torres, I haven’t any idea at all.”
“What about friends?” Jackson asked, and again Marsh shook his head.
“He … well, since the accident, he doesn’t really have any friends anymore.” His eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid — I’m afraid that the longer time went on, the more the kids decided that there was something wrong with Alex. Besides the obvious problems, I mean,” he added.
“Okay. We’re going to put a stakeout on the house,” Finnerty told him. “I’ve already got an APB out on your wife’s car, but frankly, that doesn’t mean much. The odds of someone spotting it are next to none. And it seems to me that eventually, your son will come home. So we’ll be out there in an unmarked car. Or, at least, someone will. Anyway, we’ll be keeping an eye on this place.”
Marsh nodded, but Finnerty wasn’t sure he’d been listening. “Dr. Lonsdale?” he asked, and Marsh met his eyes. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this,” Finnerty went on. “I keep hoping that there’s been a mistake, and that maybe your boy didn’t have anything to do with this.”
Marsh’s head came up, and he used his handkerchief to blot away the last of the tears on his cheeks.
“It’s all right, Sergeant,” he said. “You’re just doing your job, and I understand it.” He hesitated, then went on. “And there’s something else I should tell you. I … well, I don’t think there’s been a mistake. I think you should be aware that Alex may be very dangerous. Ever since the operation, he hasn’t felt anything — no love, no hate, no anger, nothing. If he’s started killing, for whatever reason, he probably won’t stop. Nor will he care what he does.”
There was a short silence while Finnerty tried to assess Marsh Lonsdale’s words. “Dr. Lonsdale,” he finally asked, “would you mind telling me exactly what you’re trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say that if you find Alex, I think you’d better kill him. If you don’t, I suspect he won’t hesitate to kill you.”
Jackson and Finnerty glanced at each other. Finally, it was Jackson who spoke for both of them. “We can’t do that, Dr. Lonsdale,” he said quietly. “So far, it hasn’t been proven that your son has done anything. For all we know, he might have been up in the hills shooting rabbits, and hurt himself some way.”
“No,” Marsh said, his voice almost a whisper. “No, that’s not it. He did it.”
“If he did, that will be for a court to decide,” Jackson went on. “We’ll find your son, Dr. Lonsdale. But we won’t kill him.”
Marsh shook his head wearily. “You don’t understand, do you? That boy out there — he’s not Alex. I don’t know who he is, but he’s not Alex.…”
“Okay,” Finnerty said, in the gently soothing voice he’d long ago developed for situations in which he found himself dealing with someone who was less than rational. “You just take it easy for a while, Dr. Lonsdale, and we’ll take care of it.” He waited until Marsh had settled himself onto the sofa next to Ellen, then led Jackson out of the house. “Well? What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Neither do I,” Finnerty sighed. “Neither do I.”
“I don’t believe any of this,” Jim Cochran declared. His glance alternated between his wife and his elder daughter, neither of whom seemed willing to meet his gaze. Only Kim seemed to agree with him, and Carol had insisted she be sent up to her room five minutes ago, when it became obvious a fight was brewing. “Ellen and Marsh and Alex have been friends of ours for most of our lives. And now you don’t even want me to call them?”
“I didn’t say that,” Carol protested, though she knew that even if she hadn’t said the words, certainly that was what she had meant. “I just think we should leave them alone until we know what’s happened.”
“That’s not you talking,” Jim replied. “It’s someone else.”
“No!” Carol exclaimed. “After today, I just can’t stand any more.”
“And what about Marsh and Ellen? How do you think they feel? They’re the ones whose lives are falling apart, Carol, not us.”
Carol tried to close her ears to the words that were so much an echo of what she herself had said to Lisa only weeks ago. But weeks ago, no one had died.
“And what if Alex comes home?” Carol demanded. “No one knows where he is, or what he’s doing, but according to Sheila Rosenberg, he murdered Cynthia and Carolyn Evans this morning, and probably murdered Marty and Valerie as well.”
“We don’t know that,” Jim insisted. “And you both know that Sheila is the worst gossip in this town.”
“Daddy!” Lisa said. “Alex didn’t care about what happened to Mrs. Lewis, and he didn’t think Mr. Lewis killed her. He told me so. He even said he thought someone else might get killed.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“And he’s been acting weirder and weirder ever since he came home. Are you going to tell me that’s not true, too?”
“It’s not the point,” Jim insisted. “The point is that people stick by their friends, no matter what happens.
