At a quarter past one, in a quiet residential neighborhood of older homes, she pulled in front of a two-story, white, Victorian house built in another era, in a lost California, before everything had been constructed of stucco. It stood on a corner lot, with a two-car garage, shaded by alders that were leafless in the middle of winter, a touch that made it seem like a place transported entirely, landscaping and all, from the East. According to the pages she had
torn from the telephone directory, this was the address for Dr. Carter Brenkshaw, and beside the driveway a small sign suspended between two wrought-iron posts confirmed the directory’s accuracy.
She drove to the end of the block and parked at the curb. She got out of the Jeep, scooped a handful of damp earth from a flowerbed in front of a nearby house, and smeared the dirt over the front and back license plates as best she could.
By the time she wiped her hand in the grass and got back in the Jeep, Chris had awakened but was groggy and confused after being asleep for more than two hours. She patted his face and pushed his hair back from his forehead and rapidly talked him awake. The cold night air, flowing through the broken windows, helped too.
“Okay,” she said when she was sure he was awake, “listen closely, partner. I’ve found a doctor. Can you act sick?”
“Sure.” He made a face as if he was going to puke, then gagged and moaned.
“Don’t overplay it.” She explained what they were going to do.
“Good plan, Mom.”
“No, it’s nuts. But it’s the only plan I’ve got.”
She swung the car around and drove back to Brenkshaw’s, where she parked in the driveway in front of the closed garage, which was set back from the house. Chris slid out by the driver’s door, and she picked him up and held him against her left side, his head against her shoulder. He held on to her, so she only needed her left arm to keep him in place, though he was quite heavy; her baby was not a baby any more. In her free hand she gripped the revolver.
As she carried Chris along the walk, past the stark alders, with no light except a purplish glow from one of the widely spaced mercury-vapor streetlamps out at the curb, she hoped no one was at a window in any of the nearby houses. On the other hand it probably wasn’t unusual for someone to visit a doctor’s house in the middle of the night, needing treatment.
She went up the front steps, across the porch, and rang the bell three times, quick, as a frantic mother might do. She waited only a few seconds before ringing it three more times.
In a couple of minutes, after she had rung the bell again and was beginning to think that no one was home, the porch lights came on. She saw a man studying her through the three-pane, fan-shaped window in the top third of the door.
“Please,” she said urgently, holding the revolver at her side it could not be seen, “my boy, poison, he’s swallowed poison!”
The man opened the door inward, and there was an outward-opening glass storm door, as well, so Laura stepped out of its way.
He was about sixty-five, white-haired, with a face that was Irish except for a strong Roman nose and dark brown eyes. He was dressed in a brown robe, white pajamas, and slippers. Peering at her over the rims of tortoiseshell glasses, he said, “What’s wrong?”
“I live two blocks down, you’re so close, and my boy— poison.” At the height of her hysteria, she let go of Chris, and he got out of her way as she shoved the muzzle of the .38 against the man’s belly. “I’ll blow your guts out if you call for help.”
She had no intention of shooting him, but she apparently sounded convincing, for he nodded and said nothing.
“Are you Dr. Brenkshaw?” He nodded again, and she said, “Who else is in the house, Doctor?”
“No one. I’m alone here.”
“Your wife?”