Mary Clark - The Cradle Will Fall

He thought about the apartment. How would he get in? Did he dare ring the bell? Suppose she wasn't alone? But she would be alone. He was sure of it. She was going home to drink. He could tell. That's why he waited a few hours before coming. So that she'd be drunk. Watching her from the corridor, he'd seen how agitated she was, obviously filled with the stories she wanted to tell to the police tomorrow.

He was driving into her apartment area. She lived on the ground floor at the end of her building. Thick bushes and a rusting chain link fence separated the complex from a steep ravine that dropped down a dozen feet and terminated in railroad tracks.

Edna's bedroom window backed onto the parking lot. By now she must be very drunk. He could go in and out by the window. That would lend credence to a burglary.

He parked his car, then pulled on his surgical gloves. He put the paperweight in his coat pocket and slid cautiously out, closing the door noiselessly.

Edna's bedroom shade was pulled down most of the way, but she had a plant in the window. The shade rested on the top of the plant, and he could see in clearly. The room was partially lighted by a fixture in the hall. The window was open a crack. She must be in the living room. He could hear the faint sound of a television program.

Glancing about to make sure that the area was deserted, he raised the window, pulled up the shade, carefully lifted the plant out onto the ground. He hoisted himself up to the sill.

He was inside. In the dim light he observed the virginal tidiness, the crucifix over the bed, the lace runner on the dresser. Now for the part he detested. He felt for the paperweight in his pocket and began to tiptoe down the short hall, past the bathroom, to the living room. Cautiously he peered in. The television set was on, but the room was empty. He heard the sound of a chair creaking. She must be at the table in the dinette. With infinite care he moved into the living room. This was the moment. If she saw him and screamed…

But her back was to him. Wearing a woolly blue robe, she sat slumped at the table, one hand next to a cocktail glass, the other in her lap. A tall pitcher was almost empty. Her head was on her chest. She must be asleep.

Quickly he appraised the situation. His eye fell on the hissing radiator to the right of the door. It was the old-fashioned kind with sharp, exposed pipes. Was it possible he didn't need the paperweight after all? Maybe…

"Edna," he whispered softly as he came around the table.

"Wha…" She looked up at him with bleary eyes. Confused, she began to rise, twisting in her chair. "Doctor…"

A mighty shove sent her smashing backward. Her head cracked against the radiator. Blinding lights exploded in her brain. Oh, the pain, the pain! Edna sighed, floated into darkness.

He jumped clear of the spattered blood. As he watched, the pulse in her throat flickered and stopped. He bent over her carefully. She had stopped breathing. He slipped the paperweight back into his pocket. He wouldn't need it now. He wouldn't have to bother robbing her. It would look as though she'd fallen.

Quickly retracing his steps, he went back into the bedroom. He scanned the parking area, then stepped out the window, replaced the plant, pulled down the shade and closed the window to the exact place where Edna had had it. As he did, he heard the persistent chiming of a doorbell-her doorbell! Frantically he ran back to his car. He started the engine and drove out of the apartment complex, not turning on his headlights until he approached Route 4.

Who was standing on Edna's doorstep? It had been close, so terribly close. Adrenaline pounded through his veins. Now there was only one threat left: Katie DeMaio. He would begin to remove that threat at once. Her accident had given him the excuse he needed to start medication.

It was a matter of hospital record that her blood count was low. He would order another transfusion for her on the pretense of building her up for the operation. He would give her large doses of Coumadin pills to short-circuit her blood-clotting mechanism and negate the benefits of the transfusion. By Friday, when she came to the hospital for surgery, she'd be on the verge of hemorrhaging. The surgery would then be very dangerous, and he would make it even worse by giving her heparin, another anticoagulant. The initial low blood count, the Coumadin and the heparin would be as effective on Katie DeMaio as the cyanide had been on Vangie Lewis.

AFTER THE MEETING IN SCOTT MYERSON'S office, Richard drove Katie to a rustic restaurant perched precariously on the Palisades. The small dining room was warmed by a blazing fire and lighted by candles. The proprietor obviously knew Richard well. "Dr. Carroll, a pleasure," he said as he guided them to the table in front of the fireplace.

Richard ordered a bottle of wine; a waiter produced hot garlic bread. They sat in companionable silence, sipping and nibbling.

Richard was a big man with a wholesome look, a thick crop of dark brown hair, strong, even features and broad, rangy shoulders. "Do you know I've been wanting to ask you out for months?" he said. "But you release a do-not-disturb signal. Why?"

"I don't believe in going out with anyone I work with."

"I can understand that. But that's not what we're talking about. We enjoy each other's company. We both know it. And you're having none of it. Here's the menu."

His manner changed, became brisk. "L'entrecote and steak au poivre are the specialties here," he told her. When she hesitated, he suggested, "Try the steak au poivre. It's fantastic." He ordered salads and baked potatoes, then leaned back and studied her.

"Are you having none of it, Katie?"

"The salad? The steak?"

"All right, I'm not being fair. I'm trying to pin you down and you're a captive audience. But tell me what you do when you're not at the office or your sister's. I know you ski."

"Yes. I rent a condominium in Vermont with some friends."

"Maybe you'll invite me up sometime with you." He did not wait for an answer. "Sailing is my sport. I took my boat to the Caribbean last spring… Here's your steak." They lingered over coffee. By then Richard had told her about himself. "I was engaged during med school to the girl next door."

"What happened?" Katie asked.

"We kept postponing the wedding. Jean was a very nice girl. But there was something missing." "No regrets; no second thoughts?" Katie asked. "Not really. That was seven years ago. I'm a little surprised that the 'something missing' didn't turn up long before now."

He did not seem to expect her to comment. Instead he began to talk about the Lewis case. "It makes me so angry, the waste of life. Vangie Lewis had a lot of years ahead of her."

"You're convinced it wasn't a suicide?"

"I'll need much more information before I pass judgment."

"I don't see Chris Lewis as a murderer. It's too easy to get a divorce today if you want to be free." "There's another angle to that." Richard pressed his lips together. "Let's hold off talking about it."

It was nearly ten thirty when they turned into Katie's driveway. Richard looked quizzically at the handsome fieldstone house. "How big is this place?" he asked. "How many rooms?"

"Twelve," Katie said reluctantly. "It was John's house."

Richard did not give her the chance to say good night at the door. Taking the key from her hand, he unlocked it and followed her in. "I'm not going to stay, but I do admit to an overwhelming curiosity as to where you keep yourself."

She turned on some lights and watched somewhat resentfully as he looked over the foyer, then the living room. He whistled. "Very nice." He studied John's portrait. "I hear he was quite a guy."

"Yes, he was."

"How long were you married, Katie?"