Mary Clark - The Cradle Will Fall

Was he being followed? He didn't dare look back. He'd call too much attention to himself. In a minute he'd be in the car. He'd drive home to Jackson Heights and get his fix.

He looked back. No one running. No cops. Last night had been so lousy. The doorman had almost grabbed him when he broke into that doctor's car. And what did he get for his risk? No drugs in the bag. A medical file, a messy paperweight and an old shoe. He'd have to get rid of it all.

He was at the car. He opened it, slipped in. He put the key into the ignition, turned on the engine, then heard the siren as the police car came racing the wrong way up the block. He tried to pull out, but the squad car cut him off. A cop, his hand on the butt of his pistol, jumped out.

The cop yanked open the door, reached in and pulled out the ignition key. "Well, Dannyboy," he said. "You're still at it, right? Don't you never learn any new tricks?"

THE plane circled over Newark. The descent was bumpy. Chris glanced at Joan. She was holding his hand tightly, but he knew it had nothing to do with flying. Her face was composed.

"Chris," she'd said, "I can't bear thinking that Vangie committed suicide because of me. Don't worry about dragging me into this.

Tell the truth; don't hold anything back."

If they ever got through this, they'd have a good life together.

Joan was a woman. He still had so much to learn about her. He hadn't even realized he could trust her with the simple truth.

Maybe because he'd gotten so used to shielding Vangie.

They were silent as the plane taxied to the gate. Inside, Chris was not surprised to see two detectives waiting for him-the same two who had been at the house after he found Vangie.

MOLLY settled back as the orchestra began the overture to Otello. Bill was already totally absorbed, but she couldn't relax. She glanced around. The Met was packed as usual. Overhead the twinkling chandeliers began to fade into darkness.

At the first intermission she'd phone Katie. She should have insisted on going to see her in the hospital tonight. But she'd be there in the morning before the operation and make sure Katie wasn't too nervous.

The first act seemed interminable. Finally intermission came, and Molly hurried to a phone.

A few minutes later, white-lipped, she rushed to Bill. Half sobbing, she grabbed his arm. "Something's wrong. The hospital wouldn't put the call through to Katie's room. They said the doctor forbade calls. I got the desk and insisted the, nurse check on Katie. She just came back. She's a kid, she's hysterical. Katie's not in her room. Katie's missing."

EDGAR Highley had left Katie's room with a smile of satisfaction on his face. The pills were working. The cut on her finger proved that her blood was no longer clotting.

He went down to the second floor and stopped in to see Mrs. Aldrich. The baby was in a crib by her bed. Her husband was with her. Dr. Highley smiled, then bent over the child. "A handsome specimen," he proclaimed. "I don't think we'll trade him in."

He knew his humor was heavy-handed, but sometimes it was necessary. These people were important. Delano Aldrich could direct thousands of dollars of research funds to Westlake.

Delano Aldrich was staring at his son, his face a study in awe and admiration. "Doctor, we still can't believe it. Everyone else said we'd never have a child."

"Everyone else was obviously wrong." Her anxiety had been the main problem. Fukhito had spotted that. Muscular dystrophy in her father's family. She knew she might be a carrier. And she had some fibroid cysts. He'd taken care of the cysts and she'd become pregnant. Then he'd done an early test of the amniotic fluid and had been able to reassure her on the dystrophy question. Still, she was highly emotional. She'd had two miscarriages over ten years ago, so he'd put her to bed two months before the birth. And it had worked.

"I'll stop by in the morning." These people would be witnesses for him if there were any questions about Katie DeMaio's death.

But there shouldn't be any questions. The dropping blood pressure was a matter of hospital record. The emergency operation would take place in the presence of the top nurses on the staff. He'd ask the emergency-room surgeon to assist. They'd tell the family that it had been impossible to stop the hemorrhaging.

Leaving the Aldriches, he went to the nurses' desk.

"Nurse Renge."

She stood up quickly, her hands fluttering nervously.

"I am quite concerned about Mrs. DeMaio. I will be back right after dinner to see the lab report on her blood count. I would not be surprised if we have to operate tonight."

He had made a point of speaking to several people in the lobby and then gone to the restaurant adjacent to the hospital grounds for dinner. He wanted to be able later to present the image of a conscientious doctor: Instead of going home, I had dinner next door and went back to the hospital to check on Mrs. DeMaio. At least we tried.

At a quarter to eight he was in the restaurant ordering a steak. Katie had been given the sleeping pill at seven thirty. By eight thirty it would be safe to take the last necessary step. While he waited for his coffee to be served, he'd go up the back fire stairs of the hospital to the third floor. He'd give her a shot of heparin, the powerful anticoagulant that, combined with the pills, would send her blood pressure and blood count plummeting.

He'd come back here and have his coffee, pay the bill and then return to the hospital. He'd take Nurse Renge up with him to check on Katie. Ten minutes later Katie would be in surgery.

That would be the end of the danger. His bag had not shown up. It probably never would. He had eliminated the Salem threat. Edna had been buried this morning. The moccasin in her drawer would mean nothing to whoever disposed of her belongings.

A terrible week. And so unnecessary if he'd been allowed to pursue his work openly. But now nothing would stand in his way. Someday he would receive the Nobel Prize. For contributions to medicine not imagined possible. Single-handedly he had solved the abortion problem and the sterility problem.

"Did you enjoy your dinner, Doctor?" the waitress asked.

"Very much indeed. I'd like cappuccino, please."

"Certainly, Doctor, but that will take about ten minutes."

"While you're getting it, I'll make some phone calls." He'd be gone less than ten minutes. The waitress wouldn't miss him.

Slipping out the side door near the hallway with the telephones and rest rooms, he hurried across the parking lot. He kept in the shadows. He had his key to the fire exit at the rear of the maternity wing. No one ever used those stairs. He let himself in.

The stairway was brightly lighted. He turned off the switch. He could find his way through this hospital blindfolded. At the third floor he opened the door and listened. There was no sound. Noiselessly he stepped into the hall. An instant later he was in the living room of Katie's suite.

That had been another problem he'd anticipated. Suppose someone had accompanied her to the hospital-her sister, a friend? Suppose that person had asked to stay overnight on the sofa bed in the living room? By ordering the room repainted, he'd blocked that possibility. Planning. Planning. It was everything.

That afternoon he had left the needle with the heparin in a drawer of an end table under the painter's drop cloth. A light from the parking lot filtered through the window, giving him enough visibility to find the table. He reached for the needle.

Now for the most important moment of all. He was in the room, bending over her. The drapery was open. Faint light was coming into the room. Her breathing was uneven. She must be dreaming. He took her arm, slipped the needle in, squeezed. She winced and sighed. Her eyes, cloudy with sleep, opened as she turned her head. She looked up at him, puzzled. "Dr. Highley," she murmured, "why did you kill Vangie Lewis?"