The Cradle Will Fall

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"GOOD night, Dr. Fukhito. I feel much better. Thank you." The boy managed a smile.

"I'm glad. Sleep well tonight, Tom." Jiro Fukhito got up slowly from his desk at the Valley Pines Psychiatric Clinic, where he did volunteer work. This young man had been in deep depression for weeks, nearly suicidal. He'd been doing eighty miles an hour in a car that crashed. His younger brother had been killed.

Fukhito knew he had helped the boy get through it. The work he did here with disturbed children was so satisfying, he reflected, as he walked toward the elevator. And now he'd been asked to join the staff. He wanted to accept that offer.

Should he start the investigation that would destroy him? Edgar Highley would instantly reveal the Massachusetts case if he found that Fukhito had taken his suspicions to the police.

He got into his car, sat there thinking. Vangie Lewis did not commit suicide. She absolutely did not willingly drink cyanide. She had gotten on the subject of the Jones cult during one of their sessions. "Those cults, they're all crazy. Remember all those people who killed themselves because they were told to? Did you hear the tape of them screaming after they drank that stuff? I had nightmares about it. And they looked so ugly."

Pain. Ugliness. Vangie Lewis? Never!

Jiro Fukhito sighed. He knew that he had to tell the police about Vangie. She had run out of his office toward the parking lot. But when he left, fifteen minutes later, her Lincoln Continental was still there. There was no longer any doubt in Fukhito's mind. Vangie had gone into Edgar Highley's office.

He drove out of the clinic's parking lot and turned in the direction of the Valley County prosecutor's office.

SCOTT HELD THE MOCCASIN. RICHARD, Charley and Phil sat around his desk. "Let's try to put this together," Scott said. "The last known place Vangie Lewis visited was Dr. Fukhito's office. She was wearing the moccasins. Somewhere in the hospital she lost one of them, and Edna Burns found it. Whoever brought her home put other shoes on her to try to cover up for the missing one. Edna Burns found the missing shoe. And Edna Burns died.

"Emmet Salem wanted to talk to Richard about Vangie's death. He fell or was pushed to his death, and the file he was carrying on Vangie Lewis disappeared."

"And Chris Lewis swears that he saw Edgar Highley in the Essex House," Richard interjected.

"Which may or may not be true," Scott reminded him.

"But Dr. Salem knew about the scandal in Christ Hospital," Richard said. "Highley wouldn't want that to come out." "That's no motive to kill," Scott said. "How about Highley trying to get the shoe?" Charley asked. "We don't know that. The woman from his office claimed he was opening the drawer. He didn't touch anything." Scott frowned. "We're dealing with a prominent doctor. We can't go off half-cocked. The big problem is motive. Highley had no motive to kill Vangie Lewis."

The intercom buzzed. Scott switched it on. "Mrs. Horan is here to see Dr. Carroll," Maureen said.

"All right, bring her into my office," Scott directed. "And I want you to take down her statement."

Richard leaned forward. This was the woman who had filed the malpractice suit against Edgar Highley.

The door opened and a young Japanese woman preceded Maureen into the room. Her hair fell loosely on her shoulders. Her delicate, graceful carriage gave a floating effect even to the inexpensive pantsuit she was wearing.

Scott stood up. "Won't you sit down, Mrs. Horan?"

She nodded. Clearly nervous, she deliberately folded her hands in her lap. Maureen sat behind her with her steno pad. "Mrs. Horan, you were Dr. Highley's patient?" Scott asked. Richard turned suddenly as he heard Maureen gasp. But the girl quickly recovered and, bending forward, resumed taking her notes. Anna Horan's face hardened. "Yes, I was that murderer's patient." "That murderer?" Scott said.

Now her words came in a torrent. "I went to him five months ago. I was pregnant. My husband is a law student. We live on my salary. I didn't want to, but I decided I had to have an abortion."

Scott sighed. "And now you're blaming Dr. Highley?"

"No. He told me to come back the next day. And I did. He brought me to an operating room. He left me, and I knew-I knew-that no matter how we managed, I wanted my baby. Dr. Highley came back; I was sitting up. I told him I'd changed my mind. He said, 'Lie down.' He pushed me down on the table."

"Was anyone else in the room? The nurse?"

"No. Just the doctor and me."

"And you allowed him to persuade you?"

"No. No. I don't know what happened. He jabbed me with a needle while I was trying to get up. When I woke up, I was lying on a stretcher. The nurse said it was all over."

"You don't remember the procedure?"

"Nothing. The last I remember is trying to get away. Trying to save my baby. Dr. Highley took my baby from me." A harsh cry echoed Anna Horan's heartbroken sobs. Maureen's voice was a wail. "That's, exactly what he did to me."

Richard stared at the weeping women: the Japanese girl; Maureen, with her red-gold hair and emerald-green eyes. And with absolute certainty he knew where he had seen those eyes before.

WHEN Edgar Highley reached the second floor of the hospital, he instantly felt the tension in the air. Frightened-looking nurses scurried in the hall. A man and woman in evening dress were standing by the nurses' desk. Quickly he walked over. His voice was brittle. "Nurse Renge, is there something wrong?"

"Doctor, it's Mrs. DeMaio. She's missing."

The woman in evening clothes must be Katie DeMaio's sister. What had made her come to the hospital?

"I'm Dr. Highley," he said to her. "What does this mean?"

Molly found it hard to talk. "Katie-" Her voice broke.

Her husband interrupted. "I'm Dr. Kennedy," he said. "My wife is Mrs. DeMaio's sister. When did you see Mrs. DeMaio, Doctor, and what was her condition?"

This was not a man to be easily deceived. "I saw Mrs. DeMaio earlier this evening and her condition was not good. As you probably know, she's had two units of whole blood this week. The laboratory is analyzing her blood now. I expect the count to be low, so I plan to perform surgery tonight. I think Mrs. DeMaio has been concealing the extent of her hemorrhaging."

"Oh, God, then where is she?" Molly cried.

He looked at her. "Your sister has an almost pathological fear of hospitals. Is it possible that she would simply leave?" "It's possible," Bill said slowly. "Doctor." Nurse Renge spoke up. "That sleeping pill should have put her to sleep. It was the strongest one I've ever seen."

He glowered at her. "I ordered it because I understood Mrs. DeMaio's anxiety. You were told to see that she took it." "I saw her put it in her mouth." "Did you watch her swallow it?" "No… not really." He turned his back on the nurse and spoke to Molly and Bill, his voice reflective, concerned. "I hardly think Mrs. DeMaio is wandering around the hospital. Do you agree that she might simply have walked out among the visitors?"

"Yes. Yes. I do." Molly prayed, Please let it be that way.

"I want to see if her car is in the parking lot," Bill said.

The car. He hadn't thought about her car. If they started looking for her in the hospital now… Bill frowned. "Oh, hell, she's still got that loan car. Molly, what make is it? I don't think I've even seen it."

"I… I don't know," Molly said.

Edgar Highley sighed. "I suggest that you phone her home. If she's not there, go and wait for her to come in. She's scarcely been gone an hour now. When you do find her, please insist she return to the hospital. Mrs. DeMaio is a very sick girl."

Molly bit her lip. "I see. Thank you, Doctor. Bill, let's just go to her house. She could he there and not answering the telephone."

They believed him. They would not suggest searching the hospital for several hours. And that was all he needed.

He turned to the nurse. "I am sure that we'll be hearing from

Mrs. DeMaio shortly. Call me immediately when you do. I'll be at my home." He smiled. "I have some records to complete."

"WE MUST seize Dr. Highley's records before he has a chance to destroy them. Does he keep all his records in his office?"

Jiro Fukhito stared at Richard. He had gone to the prosecutor's office to make a statement. They had listened to him almost impatiently, and then Dr. Carroll had outlined his incredible theory. Was it possible? Fukhito reviewed the times when suspicions had formed in his mind. Yes, it was possible.

Records. They had asked him about records. "Highley frequently takes files to his home," he said.

"Have search warrants sworn out immediately," Scott told Charley. "I'll take the squad to the house. Richard, you come with me. Charley, you and Phil take the office. Pick up Highley as a material witness. If he's not there, we'll nab him as soon as he gets home."

"What worries me is that he may be experimenting on someone now," Richard said. He wished Katie were here. She'd be relieved to know that Chris Lewis had been eliminated as a suspect.

Dr. Fukhito stood up. "Do you need me any longer?"

"Not right now, Doctor," Scott said. "We'll be in touch with you. If by any chance you happen to hear from Dr. Highley before we arrest him, please do not discuss this investigation with him."

Dr. Fukhito smiled wearily. "Edgar Highley and I are not friends. He would have no reason to call me at home. He hired me because he knew he'd have a hold over me. How right he was."

He left the room. As he walked down the corridor, he saw a nameplate on a door: Mrs. K. DeMaio. Katie DeMaio. Wasn't she supposed to have gone into the hospital tonight? But, of course, she never would go through with her operation while Edgar Highley was under investigation.

Jiro Fukhito went home.

SHE WAS DRIFTING DOWN A DARK CORRIDOR. At the very end there was a light. It would be warm when she got there. Warm and safe. But something was holding her back. Before she died, she had to make them know what Dr. Highley was. Her finger was dripping blood; she could feel it. She'd smear Highley's name on the floor. He was insane. He had to be stopped. Slowly, painfully, Katie moved her finger. Down, across, down again. H…

HE GOT home at quarter past nine. Having at last eliminated the final threat, he was feeling buoyant. He had finished eating less than an hour ago, but somehow could not even remember the meal. Perhaps Hilda had left something for a snack.

It was better than he had hoped. Fondue. Hilda made remarkably good fondue. He lit the Stemo can under the pot, adjusted it to a low flame. A crisp loaf of French bread was in a basket, covered by a damask napkin. He'd make a salad.

While the fondue heated, he would complete Katie DeMaio's file. He was anxious to be finished with it. He wanted to think about tomorrow's two patients: the donor and the recipient. He was confident that he could duplicate his success.

He went into the library, opened the desk drawer and withdrew Katie DeMaio's file from its compartment. He made a final entry:

Patient entered hospital at 6:00 p.m. with blood pressure 100/60, hemoglobin no more than 10 grams. This physician administered the final two Coumadin pills at 7:00 p.m. At 8:30 this physician returned to Mrs. DeMaio's room and administered 5-ml heparin injection. Mrs. DeMaio awakened briefly. In a near comatose state she asked, "Why did you kill Vangie Lewis?"

This physician left to obtain more heparin. When this physician returned, patient had left room in attempt to escape. Patient was apprehended and another 5 ml of heparin was administered. Patient will hemorrhage to death tonight in Westlake Hospital. This file is now closed.

He put down his pen, stretched, walked over to the wall safe and opened it. Bathed in light from the crystal sconces, the buff-colored files inside took on an almost golden sheen.

They were golden: the records of his genius. Expansively he lifted them all out and laid them on his desk, savoring his great successes: Berkeley and Lewis. Then his face darkened at the sight of the failures: Appleton, Carey, Drake, Elliot… Over eighty of them. But not really failures. He had learned so much, and they had all contributed. Those who had died, those who had aborted.

From somewhere in the distance a sound was beginning to penetrate the library: the wail of a siren. He hurried to the window, snatched back the drapery and glanced out. A police car had pulled into the driveway.

Had Katie been found? Had she been able to talk? Running to the desk, he stacked the files, replaced them in the safe, closed it and pushed back the panel. Calm. He must be calm.

If Katie had talked, it was all over.

All the possibilities and consequences were exploding in his mind. And then it came. The icy calm, the sense of power, the godlike omniscience that never failed him during difficult surgery.

There was a sharp rap at the door. Slowly, deliberately he smoothed his hair, then tightened the knot in his tie. He walked to the front door and opened it.