Mary Clark: The Cradle Will Fall

Laying down the pen, he slipped the final entry into the manila folder, then walked over to a panel on the bookcase. Reaching behind a book, he touched a button, and the panel swung open, revealing a wall safe. Quickly he opened the safe and inserted the file, subconsciously noting the growing number of folders. He could have recited the names on them by heart. Elizabeth Berkeley, Anna Horan, Maureen Crowley, Linda Evans-over six dozen of them: the successes and failures of his medical genius.

He closed the safe, snapped the panel back into place, then went upstairs and got into bed. Had he overlooked anything? He'd put the vial of cyanide in the safe. He'd get rid of the moccasins tomorrow night. The events of the last hours whirled furiously through his mind.

He'd drop his suit at the cleaners on the way to the hospital. He'd find out what patient was in the center room on the second floor of the hospital's east wing, what that patient could have seen. Now he must sleep.

"IF YOU don't mind, we'd like you to leave through the rear entrance," the nurse told Katie. "The front driveway froze over terribly, and the workmen are trying to clear it. The cab will be waiting in back."

"I don't care if I climb out the window, just as long as I can get home," Katie said fervently. "And the misery is that I have to come back here Friday. I'm having minor surgery on Saturday."

"Oh." The nurse looked at her chart. "What's wrong?" "I seem to have inherited a problem my mother used to have. I practically hemorrhage every month during my period." "That must be why your blood count was so low when you came in. Who's your doctor?"

"Dr. Highley."

"Oh, he's the best. He's top man in this place, you know." She helped Katie with her coat.

The morning was cloudy and bitterly cold. Katie shivered as she stepped out into the parking lot. In her nightmare, this was the area she had been looking at from her room. A cab pulled up. Gratefully she got in, wincing at the pain in her knees. "Where to, lady?" the driver asked, and pressed the accelerator.

From the window of the room that Katie had just left, a man was observing her departure. Her chart was in his hand. It read: "Kathleen N. DeMaio, 10 Woodfield Way, Abbington. Place of Business: prosecutor's office, Valley County, New Jersey."

He felt a thrill of fear go through him. Katie DeMaio.

There was a note on the chart that the night nurse had found her sitting on the edge of the bed at two eight a.m. in an agitated state and complaining about nightmares. The chart also showed she had been given a sleeping pill, so she would have been pretty groggy. But how much had she seen? Even if she thought she'd been dreaming, her professional training would nag at her. She was a risk, an unacceptable one.

SHOULDERS touching, Chris Lewis and Joan Moore sat in the end booth of the Eighty-seventh Street drugstore, sipping coffee. Her left arm rested on the gold braid on his right sleeve. Their fingers were entwined.

"I've missed you," he said carefully.

"I've missed you too, Chris. That's why I'm sorry you met me this morning. It just makes it worse." "Joan, give me a little time. I swear well work this out." She shook her head. He saw how unhappy she looked. Her hazel eyes were cloudy. Her light brown hair, pulled back in a chignon, emphasized the paleness of her smooth, clear skin.

For the thousandth time he asked himself why he hadn't made a clean break with Vangie when he was transferred to New York last year. Why had he given in to her plea to try a little longer to make a go of their marriage when ten years of trying hadn't done it? And now a baby coming. He thought of the ugly quarrel he'd had with Vangie before he left. Should he tell Joan about that? No, it wouldn't do any good.

Joan was a flight attendant with Pan American. She was based in New York and shared an apartment with two other Pan Am attendants. Chris had met her six months ago at a party in Hawaii.

Incredible how right some people are together from the first minute. He'd told her he was married, but was able to say honestly that he had wanted to break with his wife when he transferred from Minneapolis to New York. But he hadn't.

Joan was saying, "You got in last night?"

"Yes. We had engine trouble in Chicago, and the rest of the flight was canceled. Got back around six and stayed in town." "Why didn't you go home?" "Because I wanted to see you. Vangie doesn't expect me till later this morning. So don't worry." "Chris, I told you I applied for a transfer to the Latin American division. It's been approved. I'm moving to Miami next week." "Joan, no!"

"I'm sorry, but it's not my nature to be an available lady for a man who is not only married but whose wife is finally expecting the baby she's prayed for for ten years. I'm not a home wrecker."

"Our relationship has been totally innocent."

"In today's world who would believe that?" She finished her coffee. "No matter what you say, Chris, I still feel that if I'm not around, there's a chance that you and your wife will grow closer. A baby has a way of creating a bond between people." Gently she withdrew her fingers from his. "I'd better get home. It was a long flight and I'm tired. You'd better go home too."

They looked at each other. Chris tried to smile. "I'm not giving up, Joan. I'm coming to Miami for you, and when I get there, I'll be free."

THE cab dropped Katie off. She hurried painfully up the porch steps, thrust her key into the lock, opened the door and murmured, "Thank God I'm home." She felt that she'd been away weeks rather than overnight and with fresh eyes appreciated the soothing earth tones of the foyer and living room, the hanging plants.

Katie hung up her coat and sank down on the living-room couch. She looked at her husband's portrait over the mantel. John Anthony DeMaio, the youngest judge in Essex County. She could remember so clearly the first time she'd seen him. He'd come to lecture to her class at Seton Hall Law School.

When the class ended, the students clustered around him. Katie said, "Judge, I have to tell you I don't agree with your decision in the Kipling case."

John had smiled. "That obviously is your privilege, Miss…"

"Katie… Kathleen Callahan."

She never understood why at that moment she'd dragged up the Kathleen, but he'd always called her that.

They'd gone out for coffee that day. The next night he'd taken her to dinner in New York. Later, when he'd dropped her off, he said, "You have the loveliest blue eyes I've ever had the pleasure of looking into. I don't think a twelve-year age difference is too much, do you, Kathleen?"

Three months later, when she was graduated, they were married and came to live in the house John had inherited from his parents. "I'm pretty attached to it, Kathleen, but maybe you want something smaller."

"John, I was raised in a three-room apartment in Queens. I slept on a daybed in the living room. I love this house."

Besides being so much in love, they were good friends. She'd told him about her recurring nightmare. "It started when I was eight years old. My father had been in the hospital recovering from a heart attack and then he had a second attack. The old man in the room with him kept buzzing for the nurse, but no one came. By the time someone finally got there, it was too late. In my nightmare I'm in a hospital going from bed to bed, looking for Daddy. I keep seeing people I know asleep in the beds. Finally I see a nurse and run up to her and ask her where Daddy is. She smiles and says, 'Oh, he's dead. All these people are dead. You're going to die in here too.'"

"You poor kid."

"Oh, John, I missed him so much. I was always such a daddy's girl. All through school I kept thinking what fun it would be if he were at the plays and the graduations."