Clark, Mary Higgins 03 - The Cradle Will Fall

by Mary Higgins Clark

  home. Peeling off the raincoat, he hung it in the foyer closet. The

  full-length mirror on the door reflected his image. Shocked, he

  realized that his trouser knees were wet and dirty. His hair was

  badly disheveled. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were

  bulging and dilated. He looked like a caricature of himself. Rushing

  upstairs, he undressed, bathed, got into pajamas and a robe.

  He was too keyed up to sleep, and savagely hungry.

  The housekeeper had left slices of lamb on a plate. Crisp, tart

  apples were in the fruit bin of the refrigerator. Carefully he prepared

  a tray and carried it into the library. From the bar he poured

  a generous whiskey and sat at his desk. As he ate, he reviewed

  the night's happenings. If he had not stopped to check his calendar,

  he would have missed her, been unable to stop her.

  Unlocking his desk, he opened the large center drawer and slid

  back the false bottom, where he kept his current special file. He

  took out a single manila folder. Then he reached for a fresh sheet

  of paper and made a final entry:

  February 15

  At 8:40 p.m. this physician was locking the rear door of his

  office. Subject patient had just left Fukhito. She approached this

  physician and said she was going home to Minneapolis and would

  have her former doctor, Emmet Salem, deliver her baby. Hysteri

  cal patient was persuaded to come inside. Obviously patient could

  not be allowed to leave. Getting her a glass of water, this physi

  cian dissolved cyanide crystals into the glass and forced patient to

  swallow the poison. Patient expired at 8:51 p.m. Fetus was 26

  weeks old. Had it been born it might have been viable.

  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.

  CHAPTER TWO

  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."

  "Kathleen, darling, I'm going to uproot that sadness in you."

  "You already have, Judge."

  They'd spent their honeymoon traveling through Italy. John's

  pain had begun on that trip. He'd had a checkup a month after

  they got home. The overnight stay at Mount Sinai Hospital

  stretched into three days of additional tests. Then one evening he'd

  been waiting for her at the elevator, a wan smile on his face. He

  said, "We've got trouble, darling."

  Back in his room, he'd told her. "It's a malignant tumor. Both

  lungs, apparently."

  It seemed incredible. Judge DeMaio, not thirty-eight years old,

  had been condemned to an indeterminate sentence of six months

  to life. For him there would be no parole, no appeal.

  Knowing their time was slipping away, they made every minute

  count. But the cancer spread, and the pain got steadily worse. He'd

  go to the hospital for chemotherapy. Her nightmare began again;

  it came regularly.

  Toward the end, he said, "I'm glad Molly and Bill live nearby.

  They'll look out for you. And you enjoy the children."

  They'd both been silent then. Bill Kennedy was an orthopedic

  surgeon. He and Molly lived two towns away in Chapin River and

  had six kids. John had bragged that he and Katie would beat Bill

  and Molly's record. "We'll have seven," he'd declared.

  The last time he went in for chemotherapy, he was so weak they

  had him stay overnight. He was talking to her when he slipped into

  a coma. He died that night.

  The next week Katie applied to the prosecutor's office for a job

  and was accepted. The office was chronically shorthanded, and

  she always had more cases than she could reasonably handle. It

  was good therapy. There was no time for introspection.

  She'd kept the house, although it seemed silly for a young

  woman to own a large home surrounded by five acres.

  "You'll never put your life with John behind you until you sell

  it," Bill had told her. He was probably right.

  Now Katie shook herself and got up from the couch. She'd better

  call Molly and tell her about the accident. Maybe Molly would

  come over for lunch and cheer her up. Glancing into the mirror

  over the couch, Katie saw that a bruise under her right eye was

  turning a brilliant purple. Her olive complexion was a sickly yellow.

  Her collar-length dark brown hair, which usually bounced

  full and luxuriant in a natural wave, was matted against her face

  and neck. After she talked to Molly, she'd bathe and change.

  Before she could pick up the phone, it began to ring. It was

  Richard Carroll, the medical examiner. "Katie, how are you? Just

  heard that you were in some kind of accident last night."

  "Nothing much. I took a little detour off the road. The trouble

  is there was a tree in the way."

  "Why the blazes didn't you call me?"

  Richard's concern was both flattering and threatening. He and

  Molly's husband were good friends. Several times Molly had

  pointedly invited Katie and Richard to small dinner parties. But

  Katie wasn't looking to get involved, especially with someone she

  worked with. "Next time I run into a tree I'll remember," she said.

  "You're going to take a couple of days off, aren't you?"

  "Oh, no. I'm going to see if Molly's free for lunch; then I'll go

  in to the office. I'm trying a case on Friday."

  "There's no use telling you you're crazy. Okay. Gotta go. I'll

  poke my head in your office around five thirty and catch you for

  a drink. Then dinner." He hung up before she could reply.

  Katie dialed Molly's number. When her sister answered, her

  voice was shaken. "Katie, I guess you've heard about it. People

  from your office are just getting there."

  "Heard about what? Getting where?"

  "Next door. The Lewises. That couple who moved in last summer.

  That poor man; he came home and found his wife, Vangie.

  She's killed herself. Katie, she was six months pregnant!"

  The Lewises. Katie had met them at Molly and Bill's New Year's

  Day open house. Vangie, a very pretty blonde. Chris, an airline

  pilot. Numbly she heard Molly's shocked voice: "Katie, why would

  a girl who wanted a baby so desperately kill herself?"

  The
question hung in the air. Cold chills washed over Katie.

  Last night's nightmare. The face she'd glimpsed through the

  hospital window was Vangie Lewis'.

  RICHARD Carroll parked his car within the police lines on Winding

  Brook Lane. He was shocked to realize that the Lewises lived

  next door to Bill and Molly Kennedy. Bill had been a resident

  when Richard interned at St. Vincent's. Later he'd specialized in

  forensic medicine, Bill in orthopedics. They had bumped into each

  other in the Valley County courthouse when Bill was appearing

  as a witness in a malpractice trial, and their friendship was revived.

  Now they golfed together frequently, and Richard often

  stopped at the Kennedy house for a drink.

  He'd met Molly's sister, Katie DeMaio, in the prosecutor's office

  and had been immediately attracted to the dedicated young attorney,

  with her dark hair and intense blue eyes. Katie had subtly

  discouraged him, and he'd tried to dismiss her from his thoughts.

  But in the past few months he'd seen her at a couple of parties at

  Bill and Molly's and had found that he was far more intrigued

  by Katie DeMaio than he wanted to be.