Mary Clark - The Cradle Will Fall

IF HER mind had not been on the case she had won, Katie might not have taken the curve so fast, but the intense satisfaction of the guilty verdict was still absorbing her. It had been a close one. Roy O'Connor was one of the top attorneys in New Jersey. The defendant's confession had been suppressed by the court, a major blow for the prosecution. But still she had convinced the jury that Teddy Copeland had viciously murdered eighty-year-old Abigail Rawlings during a robbery.

Miss Rawlings' sister, Margaret, was in court to hear the verdict. "You were wonderful, Mrs. DeMaio," she'd said to Katie afterward. "You look like a young college girl. I never would have thought you could do it. But you proved every point; you made them feel what he did to Abby." Her eyes filled with tears. "I keep thinking how frightened Abby must have been. It would have been awful if he'd gotten away with it"

"He didn't get away with it!" Katie said. The memory of that reassurance distracted her now, made her press her foot harder on the accelerator. As she rounded the curve, the car fishtailed on the sleet-covered road.

"Oh no!" She gripped the wheel frantically. The car raced across the divider and spun completely around. She could see headlights approaching.

She turned the wheel into the skid, but the car careened onto the shoulder of the road, poised for an instant at the edge and slammed down the embankment into the woods. Katie felt the sickening crunch as metal tore into bark. Her body was flung forward against the wheel, then backward. She raised her arms to protect her face from the glass that exploded from the windshield. Biting pain attacked her wrists and knees. Velvety blackness was closing over her as she heard a siren in the distance.

The car door opening; a blast of cold air. "It's Katie DeMaio!" A voice she knew. Tom Coughlin, that nice young cop. He had testified at a trial last week. "She's unconscious."

She tried to protest, but her lips wouldn't form words. She couldn't open her eyes.

"Looks like she's cut an artery."

Something tight was being pressed against her arm.

A different voice: "She may have internal injuries. Westlake's right down the road. I'll call for an ambulance."

Hands lifting her onto a stretcher, a blanket covering her, sleet pelting her face. She was being carried. An ambulance. Doors opening and closing. If only she could make them understand. I can hear you. I'm not unconscious.

Tom was giving her name. "Kathleen DeMaio, lives in Abbington. She's an assistant prosecutor. Judge DeMaio's widow."

John's widow. A terrible sense of aloneness. The blackness was starting to recede. A light was shining in her eyes. "She's coming around. How old are you, Mrs. DeMaio?"

The question, so practical, so easy to answer. "Twenty-eight." The tourniquet Tom had wrapped around her arm was being removed. Her arm was being stitched. Needles of pain.

X rays. The emergency-room doctor. "You're fortunate, Mrs. DeMaio. Some severe bruises but no fractures. I've ordered a transfusion. Your blood count is very low. Don't be frightened."

"It's just-" She bit her lip, managed to stop herself before she blurted out that terrible, childish fear of hospitals.

Tom asking, "Do you want us to call your sister?"

"No. Molly's just over the flu. They've all had it" Her voice was so weak that Tom had to bend over to hear her. "All right. Don't worry, Katie. I'll have your car hauled out"

She was wheeled into a curtained-off section of the emergency room. Blood began dripping through a tube inserted into her right arm. A nurse was smoothing her hair back from her forehead. "You're going to be fine, Mrs. DeMaio. Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying." But she was.

She was wheeled into a room. The nurse handed her a paper cup of water and a pill. "This will help you rest, Mrs. DeMaio." It must be a sleeping pill. Katie was sure it would give her nightmares. The nurse turned off the light as she left.

Katie slid into sleep knowing a nightmare was inevitable. This time it took a different form. She was on a roller coaster and she couldn't control it. It kept climbing higher and higher, and then it went off the tracks and it was falling. She woke up trembling just before it hit the ground.

Sleet rapped on the window. She sat up. The window was open a crack and the shade, which was pulled halfway down, was rattling. She'd close the window and raise the shade. Then maybe she'd be able to sleep.

Unsteadily she walked over to the window. The hospital gown they'd given her barely came to her knees. Her legs were cold. She leaned against the windowsill, looked out. Sleet was mixed with rain now. The parking lot was running with streams of water.

Katie gripped the shade and stared down into the lot one story below. The trunk lid of a car was going up slowly. She was so dizzy now. She let go of the shade. It snapped up. Was something white floating down into the trunk? A blanket? A large bundle?

She must be dreaming, she thought. Then she pushed her hand over her mouth to muffle the shriek that tore at her throat. The trunk light was on. Through the waves of sleet-filled rain that slapped against the window, she watched the white substance part As the trunk closed, she saw a face-the face of a woman grotesque in the uncaring abandon of death.

THE alarm had awakened him promptly at two o'clock. He was instantly alert. Getting up, he went over to the examining-room sink, splashed cold water on his face, pulled his tie into a smooth knot, combed his hair and put on his steel-rimmed glasses. His socks were still wet when he took them off the radiator. Grimacing, he pulled them on and slipped into his shoes. He reached for his overcoat. It was soaked through.

He'd wear the old Burberry raincoat he kept in the closet. It was unlined. He'd freeze, but it was the only thing to do. Besides, it was so ordinary that if anyone saw him, there was less chance of being recognized.

He hurried to the closet, put on the raincoat and hung up the heavy wet chesterfield. He went over to the window and pulled the shade back an inch. There were still enough cars in the parking lot so that the absence of his own would hardly be noticed. He bit his lip as he realized that the back of his car was silhouetted by the light at the far side of the lot. He would have to walk in the shadows of the other cars and get the body into the trunk as quickly as possible.

It was time. Unlocking the medical supply closet, he bent down and picked up the body. She had once weighed around one hundred ten pounds, but she had gained a lot of weight during her pregnancy. His muscles felt every ounce as he carried her to the examining table. There he wrapped a blanket around her. Noiselessly he opened the door to the parking lot. Grasping the trunk key in two fingers, he moved to the table and picked up the dead woman. Now for the twenty seconds that could destroy him.

Eighteen seconds later he was at the car. Sleet pelted his cheek; the blanket-covered burden strained his arms. Shifting the weight, he inserted his key into the trunk lock. The lid rose slowly. He glanced up at the hospital windows. From the center room on the second floor a shade snapped up. Was anyone looking out? Impatient to have the blanketed figure out of his arms, he moved too quickly. The instant his left hand let go of the blanket, the wind blew it open, revealing her face. Wincing, he dropped the body and slammed the trunk closed.

The trunk light had been on the face. Had anyone seen? He looked up again at the window where the shade had been raised. Was someone there? He couldn't be sure. Later he would have to find out who was in that room.