CHAPTER THREE
It was nearly two A.M. when Ellen Lonsdale heard the first faint wailing of a siren. She hadn’t been asleep — indeed she’d been sitting in the living room ever since the Cochrans had left an hour earlier, growing increasingly restless as the minutes ticked by. It wasn’t like Alex to be late, and for the last half-hour she’d been fighting a growing feeling that something had happened to him. The siren grew louder. A few seconds later it was joined by another, then a third. As she listened, the mournful wailings grew into shrill screams that tore the last vestiges of calmness from her mind.
It was Alex. Deep in her soul, she knew that the sirens were for her son.
Then, inside the house, the phone began to ring.
That’s it, she thought. They’re calling to tell me he’s dead. Her feet leaden, she forced herself to go to the phone, hesitated a moment, then picked it up.
“H-hello?”
“Ellen?”
“Yes.”
“This is Barbara, at the Center?”
The hesitancy in Barbara Fannon’s voice told Ellen that something had gone wrong. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Barbara’s voice remained professionally neutral. “May I speak to Dr. Lonsdale please?”
“What’s happened?” Ellen demanded again. Then, hearing the note of hysteria in her voice, she took a deep breath and reminded herself that Marsh was on call that night. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Just a moment, Barbara.”
Her hand shaking in spite of herself, she laid the receiver on the table next to the phone and turned toward the hall. Marsh, his eyes still bleary with sleep, stood in the doorway. “What’s happening? Something woke me up.”
“Sirens,” Ellen breathed. “Something’s happened, and the hospital wants to talk to you.”
His eyes immediately clearing, Marsh strode into the room and picked up the phone. “This is Dr. Lonsdale.”
“Marsh? It’s Barbara. I’m in the emergency room. I hate to call you in this late, but there’s been some kind of an accident, and we don’t know how bad it is yet. Since you’re on call …” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
“You did right. I’ll be right there. Does anybody have any details at all?”
“Not really. Apparently at least one car went off the road, and we don’t know how many people were in it —”
“Maybe I’d better go up there.”
There was a hesitation; then: “The EMT’s are with the ambulance, Doctor.…”
Now it was Marsh who hesitated, then grimaced slightly. Even after five years, he found it hard to accept that the emergency medical technicians were, indeed, better trained to handle such situations than he himself was. “I get the picture, Barb. Say no more. See you in a few minutes.” He hung up the phone, then turned to Ellen, who stood behind a chair, both hands gripping its back.
“It’s Alex, isn’t it?” she breathed.
“Alex?” Marsh repeated. What could have put that idea into Ellen’s head? “Why on earth should it have anything to do with Alex?”
Ellen did her best to steady herself. “I just have a feeling, that’s all. I’ve had it for about half an hour. It
“No one knows who it is yet,” Marsh replied. “It’s an automobile accident, but that doesn’t mean it’s Alex.” His words, though, did nothing to dissipate the fear in her eyes, and despite the tension that still hung between them, he took her in his arms. “Honey, don’t do this to yourself.” When Ellen made no reply, he reluctantly released her and started toward their bedroom, but Ellen held onto his arm, and when she spoke, her eyes, as well as her words, were pleading.
“If it isn’t Alex, why did they call you? There’s an intern on duty, isn’t there?”
Marsh nodded. “But they don’t know how many people might have been hurt. They might need me, and I
“I want to go with you,” she said while he began dressing.
Marsh shook his head. “Ellen, there’s no reason—”
“There
“And it’s only a feeling,” Marsh insisted, and Ellen flinched at the dismissive tone of his words. He relented, and once more put his arms around his wife. “Honey, please. Think about it. Automobile accidents happen all the time. The odds of this one involving Alex are next to nothing. And I can’t deal with whatever’s happening if I have to take care of you too.”
His words hurt her, but Ellen knew he was right. Deliberately she made herself stop shaking and stepped away from him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that … Oh, never mind. Go.”
Marsh offered her a smile. “Now, that’s my girl.”
Though her husband’s smile did nothing to alleviate her pain, Ellen picked up his wallet and keys from the dresser and handed them to him. “Marsh?” she asked, then waited until he met her eyes before going on. “As soon as you know what’s happened, have someone call me. I don’t need details — I just need to know it’s not Alex.”
“By the time I know what’s happened, Alex will probably be home,” Marsh replied. Then he relented. “But I’ll have someone call. With any luck, I’ll be back in an hour myself.”
Then he was gone, and Ellen sank slowly onto the sofa to wait.
“Jesus Christ,” Sergeant Roscoe Finnerty whispered as the spotlight on his patrol car illuminated the wreckage at the bottom of the ravine. “Why the fuck didn’t it burn?” Grabbing his flashlight, he got out of the car and started clambering down the slope, with his partner, Thomas Jefferson Jackson, right behind him. A few yards away, Finnerty saw a shape move, and trained his light on the frightened face of a teenage boy.
“Far enough, son,” Finnerty said quietly. “Whatever’s happened, we’ll take care of it.”
“But—” the boy began.
“You heard him,” Jackson broke in. “Get back up on the road, and stay out of the way.” He flashed his light on the knot of teenagers who were clustered together. Most of them had wet hair, and their clothes were in disarray. “Those your friends?”
The boy nodded.
“Musta been some party. Now, get up there with them, and we’ll talk to you later.”
Silently the boy turned and started back up the hill, and Jackson followed Finnerty down toward the wreckage. Behind him, he heard car doors slamming, and the sound of voices issuing orders. Vaguely he became aware of other people beginning to move down the slope of the ravine.
The car lay on its side, so battered its make was no longer recognizable. It appeared to have turned end for end at least twice, then rolled until it came to rest against a large boulder.
“The driver’s still in it,” Jackson heard Finnerty say, and his stomach lurched the way it always did when he had to deal with the victims of automobile accidents. Stoically he moved forward.
“Still alive?”
“Dunno,” Finnerty grunted. “Don’t hardly see how he can be, though.” He paused then, well aware of his partner’s weak stomach. “You okay?”
