Clark, Mary Higgins 03 - The Cradle Will Fall Page 16

  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 t
o 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."

  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