“It’s Alex … Alex Lonsdale.”
Marsh stared at the speaker, willing himself to have heard the words wrong. Then he gazed around the room, and knew by the shock on everyone’s face, and by the way they were returning his gaze, that he had not heard wrong. He groped behind him for a chair, found one, and lowered himself into it.
“No,” he whispered. “Not Alex. Anyone but Alex …”
“Call Frank Mallory,” Barbara Fannon told one of the orderlies, immediately taking charge. “He’s next on call. His number’s on the Rolodex.” She moved around the desk and put a hand on Marshall Lonsdale’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s a mistake, Marsh,” she said, though she knew that the ambulance crew wouldn’t have identified Alex if they weren’t absolutely sure.
Marsh shook his head and then raised his agonized eyes. “How am I going to tell her?” he asked, his voice dazed. “How am I going to tell Ellen? She … she had a feeling … she told me … she wanted to come with me tonight—”
“Come on.” Barbara assumed her most authoritative tone, the one she always used with people she knew were close to breaking. Outside, the sound of the approaching ambulance disturbed the night. “We’re getting you out of here.” When Marsh failed to respond, she took him by the hand and drew him to his feet. “I’m taking you to your office.”
“No!” Marsh protested as the approaching siren grew louder. “Alex is my son—”
“Which is exactly why you won’t be here when they bring him in. We’ll have Frank Mallory here as soon as possible, and until he gets here, Benny Cohen knows what to do.”
Marsh looked dazed. “Benny’s only an intern—”
Barbara began steering him out of the emergency room as the siren fell silent and headlights glared momentarily through the glass doors of the emergency entrance. “Benny’s the best intern we’ve ever had. You told me so yourself.”
Then, as the emergency-room doors opened and the gurney bearing Alex Lonsdale’s nearly lifeless body was pushed inside, she forced Marsh Lonsdale into the corridor.
“Go to your office,” she told him. “Go to your office and mix yourself a drink from the bottle you and Frank nip at every time you deliver a baby. I can take care of everything else, but right now I can’t take care of you. Understand?”
Marsh swallowed, then nodded. “I’ll call Ellen—”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Barbara cut in. “You’ll fix a drink, drink it, and wait. I’ll be there in five minutes, and by then we’ll know something about how he is. Now, go!” She gave Marsh a gentle shove, then disappeared back into the emergency room.
Marsh paused a moment, trying to sort out his thoughts.
He knew that Barbara was right.
With a shambling gait, feeling suddenly helpless, he started down the hall toward his office.
In the little house behind the old mission, across the street from the graveyard, María Torres dropped the blind on the front window back into place, then shuffled slowly into the bedroom and eased her aged body into bed.
She was tired from the long walk home, and tonight it had been particularly exhausting.
Unwilling to be seen by anyone that night, María had been forced to make her way down the canyon by way of the path that wound through the underbrush a few feet below the level of the road. Each time she had heard the wailing of a siren and seen headlights flashing on the road above, she had huddled close to the ground, waiting until the car had passed before once more making her slow progress toward home.
But now it was all right.
She was home, and no one had seen her, and her job was safe.
Tonight she had no trouble. Tonight it was the
gringos
who had the trouble.
To María Torres, what had happened on the road near the hacienda tonight was nothing less than a blessing from the saints. All her life, she had spent many hours each week praying that destruction would come to the
gringos
.
Marsh stared at the speaker, willing himself to have heard the words wrong. Then he gazed around the room, and knew by the shock on everyone’s face, and by the way they were returning his gaze, that he had not heard wrong. He groped behind him for a chair, found one, and lowered himself into it.
“No,” he whispered. “Not Alex. Anyone but Alex …”
“Call Frank Mallory,” Barbara Fannon told one of the orderlies, immediately taking charge. “He’s next on call. His number’s on the Rolodex.” She moved around the desk and put a hand on Marshall Lonsdale’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s a mistake, Marsh,” she said, though she knew that the ambulance crew wouldn’t have identified Alex if they weren’t absolutely sure.
Marsh shook his head and then raised his agonized eyes. “How am I going to tell her?” he asked, his voice dazed. “How am I going to tell Ellen? She … she had a feeling … she told me … she wanted to come with me tonight—”
“Come on.” Barbara assumed her most authoritative tone, the one she always used with people she knew were close to breaking. Outside, the sound of the approaching ambulance disturbed the night. “We’re getting you out of here.” When Marsh failed to respond, she took him by the hand and drew him to his feet. “I’m taking you to your office.”
“No!” Marsh protested as the approaching siren grew louder. “Alex is my son—”
“Which is exactly why you won’t be here when they bring him in. We’ll have Frank Mallory here as soon as possible, and until he gets here, Benny Cohen knows what to do.”
Marsh looked dazed. “Benny’s only an intern—”
Barbara began steering him out of the emergency room as the siren fell silent and headlights glared momentarily through the glass doors of the emergency entrance. “Benny’s the best intern we’ve ever had. You told me so yourself.”
Then, as the emergency-room doors opened and the gurney bearing Alex Lonsdale’s nearly lifeless body was pushed inside, she forced Marsh Lonsdale into the corridor.
“Go to your office,” she told him. “Go to your office and mix yourself a drink from the bottle you and Frank nip at every time you deliver a baby. I can take care of everything else, but right now I can’t take care of you. Understand?”
Marsh swallowed, then nodded. “I’ll call Ellen—”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Barbara cut in. “You’ll fix a drink, drink it, and wait. I’ll be there in five minutes, and by then we’ll know something about how he is. Now, go!” She gave Marsh a gentle shove, then disappeared back into the emergency room.
Marsh paused a moment, trying to sort out his thoughts.
He knew that Barbara was right.
With a shambling gait, feeling suddenly helpless, he started down the hall toward his office.
In the little house behind the old mission, across the street from the graveyard, María Torres dropped the blind on the front window back into place, then shuffled slowly into the bedroom and eased her aged body into bed.
She was tired from the long walk home, and tonight it had been particularly exhausting.
Unwilling to be seen by anyone that night, María had been forced to make her way down the canyon by way of the path that wound through the underbrush a few feet below the level of the road. Each time she had heard the wailing of a siren and seen headlights flashing on the road above, she had huddled close to the ground, waiting until the car had passed before once more making her slow progress toward home.
But now it was all right.
She was home, and no one had seen her, and her job was safe.
Tonight she had no trouble. Tonight it was the
gringos
who had the trouble.
To María Torres, what had happened on the road near the hacienda tonight was nothing less than a blessing from the saints. All her life, she had spent many hours each week praying that destruction would come to the
gringos
.
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