The Cradle Will Fall

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SHE tried to wake up. There was a click; a door had closed. Someone had just been here. Her arm hurt. Dr. Highley. She dropped off… What had she said to Dr. Highley? Katie woke up a few minutes later and remembered. The black car and the shiny spokes and the light on his glasses. She'd seen him put Vangie Lewis in his trunk Monday night. Dr. Highley had killed Vangie. And now he knew she knew about him. Why had she asked him that question? He'd be back. She had to get out of here. He was going to kill her too.

Help. She needed help. Why was she so weak? Her finger was bleeding. The pills he had given her. Since she'd been taking them she'd been so sick. The pills were making her bleed.

Oh, God, help me, please. The phone! Katie fumbled for it, knocked it over. She pulled it up by the cord, put the receiver to her ear. The line was dead.

Highley had said the phone was being repaired. She pushed the bell for the nurse. The nurse would help her. But there was no click to indicate that the light was on outside her door. She was sure the signal wasn't lighting the nurse's panel either.

She had to get out of here before Highley came back. Fighting waves of dizziness, she stood up. She'd go down to the second floor. There were people there-other patients, nurses.

From nearby, a door closed. He was coming back. Frantically Katie looked at the open door to the corridor. He'd see her if she went out there. Stumbling to the living-room door, she opened it, got inside, closed it before he came into the bedroom.

Where could she go? She couldn't stay here. She heard a door open inside. He was in the bathroom looking for her. Hide under the drop cloth? No. He'd find her, drag her out. Dizziness clawed at the space behind her eyes. Her legs were rubbery.

She stumbled to the door that led to the hall. There was a fire exit there. She'd seen it when she was wheeled in. She'd go down that way to the second floor. She'd get help.

The door to the fire stairs was heavy. She tugged at it… tugged again. Reluctantly it gave way. She stepped inside. It closed so slowly. Would he see it closing? The stairs. It was so dark here, terribly dark. She grabbed the banister. The stairs were steep. There was a landing after eight steps. Another short flight, then she was at the door. She tried the handle. It was locked. It could be opened only from the other side.

Then she heard the third-floor door open and heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.

CHRIS refused to call a lawyer. He sat opposite the prosecutor; he looked at the two detectives who had met him at the airport. "I have nothing to hide," he said.

Scott was unimpressed. A young man carrying a stenographer's pad came into the room, sat down and took out a pen. Scott looked directly at Chris. "Captain Lewis, it is my duty to inform you that you are a suspect in the deaths of Vangie Lewis, Edna Burns and Dr. Emmet Salem. You may remain silent. You are not required to answer any questions. You are entitled to the services of a lawyer. Any statement that you make can be used against you. Is that perfectly clear?"

"Yes."

Scott shoved a paper across the desk. "This is a copy of the Miranda warning you have just heard. Please read it carefully. Be sure you understand it. If you are so disposed, sign it."

Chris read the statement, signed it and handed it back. He braced himself for Scott's question. "Did you murder your wife, Vangie Lewis?"

Chris looked directly at him. "I did not murder my wife. I do not know if she was murdered. But I do know this. If she died before midnight Monday, she did not kill herself in our home."

Scott, Charley and Phil were astonished as Chris calmly said, "I was there a short time after midnight Monday. Vangie was not home. I returned to New York. At eleven the next morning I found her on the bed. It wasn't until the funeral director told me the time of death that I realized her body must have been returned to our house. But even before that I knew something was wrong. My wife would never have worn the shoes she was wearing when she was found. Her right leg and foot were badly swollen, and the only shoes she could wear were a pair of battered moccasins."

It was easier than he had expected. The questions came at him. "You left the motel at eight Monday night and returned at ten. Where did you go?"

"To a movie in Greenwich Village. After I got back to the motel, I couldn't sleep. I decided to drive home and talk to Vangie. That was shortly before midnight."

Then the hammerblow. "Did you know your wife was carrying an Oriental fetus?"

"Oh, my God!" Horror mingled with a sense of release flooded over Chris. It hadn't been his baby. An Oriental fetus. That psychiatrist. Oh, the poor kid. That must have been why she had called Dr. Salem. She wanted to hide.

"You didn't know she was involved with another man?"

"No. No."

"Why did you go to Edna Burns's apartment Tuesday night?"

"Wait, please-can we take this just the way it happened?" Coffee was brought in, and he began to sip it. It helped. "Edna Burns called me Tuesday night, just after I realized that Vangie must have died before she was brought home. Miss Burns was almost incoherent. She rambled on about Cinderella and Prince Charming, said she had something for me and that she had a story for the police. I thought she might know who Vangie had been with. I drove to her apartment complex. Some kid pointed out where she lived. I rang the bell and knocked. The television was on, the light was on, but she didn't answer. I figured she'd passed out and there was no use trying to talk to her. I went home."

"What time was that?"

"About nine thirty."

"All right. What did you do then?"

More questions, one after another; he drank more coffee. Truth. The simple truth. It was so much easier than evasion. He took a deep breath. They were asking about Dr. Salem.

RICHARD sat at Katie's desk as he waited for the head of personnel of Christ Hospital in Devon, England, to answer his phone. Only by emphasizing his need to talk to someone who had been in authority at the hospital for more than ten years had he been given the man's private number.

"Yes." An angry, sleepy voice had answered.

Richard introduced himself and went directly to the point. "Sir, I apologize for calling you at this hour, but the matter is vital. This is a transatlantic call. I must have information about Dr. Edgar Highley."

The man's voice became wary. "What do you want to know?"

"I have just spoken with Queen Mary Clinic in Liverpool and was surprised to learn that Dr. Highley had been on staff there a relatively short time. We had been led to believe otherwise. However, I was told that Dr. Highley was a member of the Christ Hospital staff for at least nine years. Is that accurate?"

"Edgar Highley interned with us after his graduation from Cambridge, then became staff. He is a brilliant doctor."

"Why did he leave?"

"After his wife's death, he relocated in Liverpool. Then we heard that he had emigrated to the United States."

"Sir, I can't waste time being discreet. I believe that Dr. Highley may be experimenting with his pregnant patients. Is there any information you can offer to support that possibility?"

The words that came next were slow and deliberate. "While he was with us, Dr. Highley was deeply involved in prenatal research. He did quite brilliant experiments on embryos of frogs and mammals. Then a fellow doctor began to suspect that he was experimenting with aborted human fetuses-which is, of course, illegal."

"What was done about it?"

"He was watched very carefully. Then a tragedy occurred. Dr. Highley's wife died suddenly. There was the suspicion that he had implanted her with an aborted fetus. Dr. Highley was asked to resign. This is absolutely confidential. There is no proof."

Richard absorbed what he had heard. His hunch had been right. A question came into his mind-a long shot. "Sir, do you by any chance know a Dr. Emmet Salem?"

The voice warmed. "Of course. A good friend. Dr. Salem was visiting staff here at the time of the Highley scandal."

SILENTLY KATIE RAN DOWN THE STATUS to the main floor. Desperately she grasped the knob, tried to open the door. But it was locked. Upstairs the footsteps had paused. He was trying the second-floor knob, making sure that she had not escaped him. The footsteps started again. He was coming down. Through these heavy doors no one would hear her if she screamed.

She felt dull pain in her pelvic area. Whatever he had given her had started the hemorrhaging. She was dizzy. But she had to get away. Wildly she began rushing down the staircase. One more flight. It probably led to the basement. He'd have to explain how and why she'd gotten there. The farther she got, the more questions would be asked. She stumbled on the last stair. Don't fall. Don't make it look like an accident.

But she'd be trapped down here. Another door. This one would be locked too. She tried the knob. He was coming. Dark as it was, she could sense a presence rushing down at her.

The door opened. The corridor was dimly lighted. She was in the basement. She saw rooms ahead. The door snapped closed behind her. Could she hide somewhere? Help me. Help me. There was a switch on the wall. She turned it off. The corridor disappeared into blackness. Then, a few feet behind her, the door from the stairwell burst open.

HIGHLEY was suspected of causing his first wife's death. Winifred Westlake's cousin believed he had caused Winifred's death. Highley was a brilliant researcher. Highley may have been experimenting on some of his patients. Highley may have injected Vangie Lewis with the semen of an Oriental male. But why? Would he try to accuse Fukhito? Or had Vangie been involved with Fukhito? Was Highley's possible experimentation only incidental to Vangie's pregnancy?

Richard could not find the answers. He sat at Katie's desk twirling her pen. He wished he knew where she was. He wanted to talk to her.

There was a soft knock on the door and Maureen looked in.

Her eyes were emerald green, large and oval. Beautiful eyes.

"Dr. Carroll.''

"Maureen, I'm sorry I asked you to stay. I thought Mrs. Horan would be here long ago."

"She phoned. She's on her way. Something came up at work and they needed her. But there are two women here. They're friends of Edna Burns. They wanted to see Katie. One of them, Mrs. Fitzgerald, said she met you the other night at the Burns apartment."

"Right. Tell them to come on in. If it's anything much, we'll make them wait to talk to Scott."

They entered the office together, Gana's eyes snapping with excitement. Gertrude was carrying the moccasin in a paper bag. Her gray hair was neatly in place. She leaned forward, shook the bag, and the shabby moccasin fell onto Katie's desk. Primly she began to explain. "That shoe is the reason we are here."

SHE zigzagged down the corridor. Would he know where the light switch was? He knew this hospital. Where would she go? There had been a door at the end of the hall. If she ran straight, she'd get to it. Maybe she could lock herself in there somehow. Maybe he'd try the other doors first.

He was standing still. He was listening for her. Her outstretched hand touched a cold wall, then a doorframe. Her hand found a knob. She turned it. A heavy formaldehyde smell filled her nostrils. From behind her she heard rushing feet. She stepped inside and tried to push the door closed, but she was so dizzy. She stumbled and fell. She reached out. Her hand touched a pant leg.

"It's all over, Katie," Dr. Highley said.

"ARE you sure this is your wife's shoe?" Scott demanded.

Wearily Chris nodded. "I am absolutely certain. This is the one that was so loose on her… the left one." "When Edna Burns phoned you, did she tell you she had this?" "No. She said she had something to tell the police and that she wanted to talk to me."

"All right. Your statement will be typed immediately. Read it carefully, sign it if you find it accurate, and then you can go home. We'll want to talk with you again tomorrow morning."

For the first time Chris felt as though the prosecutor had begun to believe him. He got up to go. "Where is Joan?"

"She's completed a statement. She can go with you. Oh, one thing. What impression do you have of Dr. Highley?"

"I never met him."

"Did you read this article?" Scott held up a copy of Newsmaker magazine.

Chris looked at the picture of Dr. Highley. "I saw this yesterday on the plane into New York." Memory jogged. "That's it. That's what I couldn't place. He's the man who got off the elevator at the Essex House last night when I was trying to reach Dr. Salem."

HE SWITCHED on a light and stood staring down at her, his sandy hair falling untidily on his forehead.

She managed to stumble to her feet. She was in a small area like a waiting room. It was so cold. A thick steel door was behind her. She shrank back against it.

"You've made it so easy for me, Mrs. DeMaio." Now he was smiling at her. "Everyone knows about your fear of hospitals. When Nurse Renge and I make rounds in a few minutes, we'll assume you left the hospital. Certainly no one will dream of looking for you in the morgue.

"An old man died in the emergency room tonight. He's in one of those vaults. Tomorrow, when the undertaker comes for his body, you'll be found on the floor. What happened will be obvious. You were hemorrhaging; you became disoriented. Tragically, you wandered down here and bled to death."

"No." His face was blurring. She was dizzy, swaying.

He opened the steel door, pushed her through it, held her as she slid down. She had fainted. Kneeling beside her, he injected the last shot of heparin. She probably wouldn't regain consciousness. Even if she did, she couldn't get out. From this side the door was locked. He closed it and turned out the light. At last he was finished with Katie DeMaio.

Cautiously he opened the door into the corridor and hurried out into the parking lot by the fire exit through which he'd entered fifteen minutes before.

Moments later he was drinking lukewarm cappuccino, waving away the offer of the waitress to bring him a hot cup. "My calls took a bit longer than I expected," he explained. "And now I must hurry back to the hospital. There's a patient there about whom I'm quite concerned."