Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

The two women are suddenly standing with me and my escort. Back inside, the man leaning over the crib seems to be poking around in it. A few seconds pass. Then the man looks up from the crib. He turns and faces the glass window.

I see his face. I pull my elbow away from my escort. I push quickly past the other two women and rush through the open door. I move toward the man. He smiles at me. I know him.

The man is Dr. Rudra Sarkar.

CHAPTER 74

AN ERUPTION IN MY brain. An explosion of confusion and anger and fear. I can almost feel my mind clicking madly, trying to sort out what I am seeing, and what it all means.

Sarkar. Rudra Sarkar. Dr. Sarkar.

Then comes an extraordinary surprise. Something else explodes inside me. Along with my rage I experience something completely shocking: I feel my heart breaking. At what? The horror of what surrounds me? The screaming of the innocents? The jungle of tubes and wires and monitors? Yes, of course, and also the astounding betrayal, from, of all people, Dr. Sarkar. This is a man who delivers life, and he is now standing before me, a monster, even beyond a monster. Who the hell is this guy? The devil himself.

“This had to happen, Lucy. It was only a matter of time before your nimble mind figured it all out. I knew that one day you’d find it.” The voice is the warm, reassuring voice I have always liked, the voice that soothed so many expectant mothers.

“But I never dreamed I’d find you here, Dr. Sarkar. Never. It absolutely never crossed my mind.”

Sarkar’s charm has not at all disappeared. He smiles. His eyelashes flutter. “This is simply the arrival of the inevitable,” he says.

“No. No. This was never inevitable,” I say.

“Let me tell you something wonderful, Lucy.” A pause, a smile. Then, “Your visit could not have occurred at a better time. Only last week I had to dismiss my assistant, Nina. I believe you knew her.”

I am stunned, now speechless.

Sarkar continues to talk. “Because, you see … Well, Lucy, this might be a wonderful opportunity for you. This might …”

Yes, I am shaking, but I am also hoping that deep inside I will find the strength to confront this horror.

The explosion travels from my brain to my lips. “Stop! Stop talking!”

“Lucy, please. This is a professional space,” he says.

“You are a fucking madman,” I yell, as if this observation was a revelation.

He laughs, then turns deadly serious. “No, I am a pioneer. What we are doing will aid, no, cure infants with congenital heart problems. We are isolating those genes that—”

“Don’t talk anymore,” I yell.

Our argument seems to have woken every infant in the nursery. The wailing is almost overwhelming. Sarkar and I stand alone together in the nursery.

His eyes twinkle, but it is a watery, distant, peculiar twinkle.

“Let me explain the procedure. Tell me if you don’t see the value,” Sarkar says, as if we are two colleagues chatting over a cup of coffee.

The babies continue screaming. I glance at the door to see if the women will return.

Where is Troy? Swimming in the river? Where is anyone?

I say, “When I thought the babies were being harvested for childless couples, I thought it was disgusting. The word itself, harvested, is awful. But I thought at least the babies would have homes, probably good homes, probably good parents, advantages. But this. This is kidnapping and murder rolled into one. And the pain. The infants are suffering, being tortured.”

I move closer to Sarkar, who continues to smile in a hateful, condescending manner.

I intend to continue yelling. I don’t know when I’ll stop, when I’ll run out of words that reach beyond anger.

Then I look down into the crib beside me.

A tiny baby, wearing a tiny plastic brace on his tiny shoulders. The baby has lots of beautiful dark hair.

It is, of course, the Morabito baby, the very infant who only a few hours ago Dr. Sarkar helped deliver.

Then I hear a voice. “What the hell is going on in here?”

The door has opened. The two women who’d left a few minutes ago have returned.

I begin to reach into the crib.

“I’ll handle this,” Sarkar shouts at the women. “Get out. Get the hell out.”

The two women scurry back through the door and close it behind them. As soon as I hear the door click, I hear a loud sound, a human grunt.

Suddenly rough hands grab me by both my shoulders. I’m thrown to the ground. My head hits the floor. Hard.

I am lying on my back. Sarkar is on top of me. He is like a schoolboy who has won a schoolyard fight. His knees have pinned down my shoulders. A punch to my right cheek, followed by a harder punch to my other cheek. The teeth in the back of my mouth crackle.

I taste the blood filling my mouth.

Sarkar gets up from me quickly. Standing over me, he looks a mile tall. Then he—I don’t believe this—kicks me. Over and over and over.

I am screaming.

I think I’m going to pass out. And then …

I hear a gunshot.

I move my aching, bleeding head ever so slightly. I see it all happen. I see Sarkar’s feet stumble and hesitate and stumble again.

He falls. He falls to his knees. Then he completes his collapse. He’s on the floor. On his back right next to me.

We must look just like a boyfriend and girlfriend sleeping on a blanket at the beach.

I do not know what makes me move. I do not know what motivates me. I do not know why anything is happening the way it is happening. I find the strength to kneel. I look at Sarkar’s face. His eyes are open, but they look like the eyes in a corpse. I push him onto his stomach. Blood is soaking his blue scrubs. Nothing will stop the flow of blood here. What makes me want to try to save him? Who would want to save the devil?

I find the strength to push Sarkar onto his back again. I push hard on his chest. Compression. Exertion. I lean in and hold his chin with one hand, his nose with the other hand. I put my lips on his lips and try to breathe life into him.

“Take a deep breath, and just push, one big push, just give me a short breath and then a big push.” That is what I am thinking or hearing or saying. I am in a great confusion. Is this birth or is this death?

“Lucy, it’s no use,” I hear. It is Leon Blumenthal who is speaking.

I am still hearing the word push. If I could only get Sarkar to give one good push.

Hands reach down and touch my shoulders and arms. The hands must be those of Leon Blumenthal.

Those hands lift me gently, and I am forced to remove my lips from Rudi Sarkar’s lips.

CHAPTER 75

NEW JERSEY STATE POLICE. FBI. Harrison Police.

Officers and more officers and more officers.

Blaring sirens and flashing red lights.

Vehicles. Helicopters overhead.

Medics and sharpshooters and doctors and nurses.

It is the whole rich crazy symphony of fear and noise and general bullshit that accompanies something so awful and huge and shocking.

“Get her into the ambulance right now,” I hear.

Blumenthal? Wait. Of course not. No, I guessed wrong. They weren’t his hands. It can’t be. Blumenthal was never called. I said don’t call him. I was arrogant. I didn’t need him.

Troy. Of course it was Troy. Troy called Blumenthal. Troy ignored my orders. Thank you, Troy. Thank you, God.

“Don’t move, miss,” says a police medic. “Don’t move. You’re injured.”

“No, I’m not. But thanks for caring,” I say, and I start to stand. I’m up. I’m good. I’m better. I feel the bulky bandage that encircles my head. Then I hear a voice.

“I had to do it, Lucy. I had to call Blumenthal and Cilia,” Troy says. We hug like two siblings who haven’t seen each other for years.