by James Dixon
The elevator doors parted on the second floor, where several big nurses waited, as if having been chosen for their strength. They led the Scotts quickly down the corridor. Jody tried to focus on what was happening around her but was too absorbed in what was going on within herself. This lovely young woman was about to have her first child, and what should have been a beautiful experience was turning into a nightmare. The warm, friendly, loving faces of people who should have helped, who should have brought her baby into the world with tenderness, looked away from her now, ashamed of what they were about to do.
They’re all murderers, Eugene thought, every one of them, grotesque, frightening people.
They neared the preparation room. Even the hospital seemed distorted, twisted.
“This is as far as you go, Mr. Scott,” Jody heard one of the nurses tell her husband.
Then the door slammed. Jody could feel someone rolling up her sleeve. “Oh, no,” she cried. Then came a sharp pain from the jab of a needle being forced into her arm. Then nothing . . .
Outside the preparation room, Eugene stared at the closed door. He turned. There Mallory stood, still holding Jody’s suitcase.
“Thank you,” said Eugene, reaching to take the suitcase.
“You’re welcome,” Mallory said.
Eugene looked around. Police were all over the place. “What are all these police doing here?” asked Eugene, pretending he didn’t have a clue as to what was going on.
“Security, but nothing for you to be alarmed about,” said Mallory, blank-faced. Lying came easily to him.
“You mean a bomb scare?” said Eugene, playing the game.
“Something like that,” answered Mallory.
“Nothing to do with your being outside my house the other day?” said Eugene.
Mallory looked straight at him. “Later, Mr. Scott. Later we’ll tell you all about it. Be patient.”
“I bet you will. I bet you have a great little story all ready for me,” Eugene snapped.
“Obviously you’re in no mood to be reasonable.” And then quickly, to someone behind Eugene, Mallory said, “Take him to the waiting room.”
Eugene felt two strong arms grab him. As they turned him around he saw two massive policemen who led him with no great effort down the corridor.
Frank Davis was still in the parking lot. He was having trouble starting his car. He had rented it at the airport when he flew in from Los Angeles. “The last one,” the guy at the rental counter had said. “Take it or leave it.”
Frank had taken it, and every time he went to start it, he had to go through this. He tried again. Varoom! The engine turned over.
It was dark as he headed away from the hospital. Everything looked so different at night, thought Davis, making a left turn. He hoped he would remember the meeting place.
He made another left and there it was, the giant motor home, sitting incongruously in the empty street.
At the hospital, Jody had been wheeled into the medical prep room and was being readied for the delivery of her child.
“Breathe deeply now,” said the nurse.
Jody looked at her through a haze of drugs, only vaguely aware of what was going on.
“Come on now, dear,” repeated the nurse as if speaking to a small child. “Be a good girl and breathe deeply . . .”
Frank Davis crossed the dark, empty street. He tried the door of the mobile home. It was locked, so he knocked hastily.
“Who is it?” a voice from inside asked.
“Davis, Frank Davis,” he yelled.
The door opened and Davis climbed inside to face the anxious Drs. Westley and Forrest and their three assistants.
“They’ve taken her up to Maternity,” Frank said quickly.
“You’re sure?” ranted Westley, wondering who he might blame.
“I’m positive,” said Frank. “I saw them getting into the elevator with Mallory.”
“With Mallory,” echoed Westley. “Then they didn’t believe us.”
“No,” said Frank in protest, “I’m sure they believed us. Something else must have happened. Maybe they panicked. Maybe the baby came early.”
“Well, whatever the reason, we’re too late,” said Dr. Forrest reasonably. “We’ll just have to try again somewhere else.”
“Wait a second,” said Frank. “I’m going back there.” He picked up a black doctor’s bag and a clipboard lying on one of the counters.
“Please, Frank,” said Forrest, “what’s the use?”
“Look, let’s try it,” answered Frank. “Move this unit into position behind the hospital.”
“You’ll be recognized,” said Westley.
“Maybe not,” he said, moving for the door. “What have we got to lose?”
The five watched as Frank disappeared out the door. Westley was the first to react. He looked over at his colleague, Dr. Forrest.
“We’re ready, aren’t we, Doctor?”
“We’re ready,” said Dr. Forrest.
“Well, let’s go, then,” said the impish-looking Dr. Westley. “Let’s go!”
Outside, Frank checked to be sure his gun was still there as he climbed into his rented car. Hopeful, he tried the motor. No luck. Again. On the third try, it turned over and Frank Davis was off, the lights of the hospital looming in the distance.
On the second floor of the hospital, the maternity floor, Jody was still being readied for the delivery room. A flock of nurses milled around her.
In another part of the second floor, the fathers’ waiting room, Eugene was also being watched over by a very large police officer.
And in still another part of the second floor, in a small room off the operating room, Dr. Fairchild, all thoughts of his insurance forms forgotten, was scrubbing up.
In the lobby, a contingent of police was standing around, uniforms everywhere, ready for any eventuality.
One cop said to another, “Wouldn’t it be a riot if it turned out to be a normal kid?”
A pretty nurse, her skirt shorter than necessary, jumped right into the conversation.
“Or twins,” she said. “What if they get two of whatever it is they’re looking for?”
“No problem,” said the other cop. “Then we get the governor to call in the National Guard. That’ll fix ’em.” All three laughed. But it was an uneasy, self-conscious laugh, as if they knew what was lurking on the floor above them, getting ready to be born.
In the parking lot, the rented Pinto coughed itself to a stop in the section of the parking lot marked “Doctors Only.” The attendant on duty looked over suspiciously. What doctor drives a Pinto? he wondered.
But out of the car came this harried-looking man carrying the telltale black bag. He walked with purpose toward the front door.
Must be his kid’s, the attendant thought and shrugged, returning to the grimy paperback he’d been reading.
Frank Davis, head down, had almost reached the front entrance when he saw the large mobile home turning the corner and heading around toward the back of the hospital.
Now Frank was right at the front door. A policeman stepped out, blocking Frank’s path.
“Sorry, sir . . .”
That was all he had a chance to say. Frank didn’t wait for anything more.
“Dr. Fletcher,” he interrupted. “Emergency.” He kept on going, walking straight through the police line, ignoring them, with their badges, their guns, and their shotguns, too. Without the slightest hesitation he made straight for the elevators.
Another sergeant, off to the side, had seen Davis’s hurried approach. Moving quickly to the front door, he confronted the policeman who had let him pass. “Who was that?” he asked. “I told you nobody gets in here.”
“He’s a doctor. Fletcher, something like that. It’s an emergency,” said the policeman, trying his best to cover himself.
Swearing under his breath, the sergeant moved quickly toward the elevators, where Frank stood nervously pressing the up button.
“J
ust a minute,” said the sergeant, positioning himself between Frank and the bank of elevators.
An elevator door opened. “Going up,” the elevator man called.
Frank coldly addressed the sergeant standing in front of him. “Listen, whoever you are, I’ve got a cardiac arrest on the third floor. Get out of my way or take the consequences.”
That said, Frank, swinging his black doctor’s bag, brushed quickly by the police sergeant and into the elevator. The elevator doors closed and Frank Davis was gone, off to see what he could do to save the life of the Scott baby.
In the ascending elevator, Frank was alone with the elevator operator. At two, the elevator stopped. A policeman got on, and Frank caught a quick glimpse of the maternity floor. Policemen, at least a dozen of them, were lined up and down the corridor.
“Something’s going on in there,” said the elevator operator, “that’s for sure.”
“Take me to the top floor,” said the policeman gruffly.
“Top floor it is,” said the elevator operator as he started the elevator again. “You want three, right, Doc?”
“Right,” said Frank, keeping his head down as if absorbed in his clipboard, and as the policeman looked over curiously.
“Here we are, number three,” said the elevator operator, the elevator coming to a stomach-churning halt.
“Thank you,” said Frank as, head still down, he walked quickly from the elevator.
Now the nurses’ station. Without breaking stride, Frank proceeded quickly past the nurse on duty. She was writing something in a ledger, and by the time she had a chance to look up, Frank was a good quarter of the way down the hall.
At the far end of the hall Frank saw a lone policeman standing guard. Apparently he was there to see that no one reached the second floor by way of the stairway. Halfway down the hall Frank moved over to the window overlooking the back of the building. The mobile unit was there, waiting! Frank had to find a way past that policeman. He looked over. The policeman had moved a step or two away from the exit door! He was reading an employees’ bulletin board on which used cars, apartments for rent, and so forth were advertised.
Without hesitation Frank moved silently down the corridor, past the policeman still engrossed in the bulletin board, and reached the exit door. Silently he opened it. He stepped through and was gone.
A clicking sound as the door shut. The policeman turned. He looked. Nothing. He went back to reading the used-car ads.
Downstairs in the preparation room, Jody had been fully prepared for delivery. At the door, an intern looked in at the expectant mother. “We’re ready,” he said, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.
Instead of the regular orderlies, a phalanx of uniformed policemen pushed the table forward. Through the haze Jody could just make out the blue of their uniforms. She knew for sure now what they meant to do. She couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to say something.
“Don’t harm it,” she cried as they wheeled her from the preparation room into the delivery room. “You haven’t any right! It’s my baby,” she sobbed, grabbing at anything, the policemen, the walls. “Please,” she cried, “you can’t do this!”
Dr. Fairchild stood at the rear of the delivery room, watching her, hearing her hysterical words. Jody recognized him immediately, even though the mask he wore hid almost his entire face.
“Dr. Fairchild, you’re part of this!” she screamed. “How can you do this, Doctor? It’s murder! Don’t you know that it’s murder!”
“Restrain her,” said Dr. Fairchild, his eyes sad above the paper mask. “Make sure she can’t move.”
The policeman responded, pinning her legs and arms, leaving only her head free.
“Gene!” she screamed. “Eugene, help me! Don’t let them do it, Eugene! It’s murder, plain murder. They’re trying to murder my child.”
Fairchild turned to another doctor who has just come into the room. “We’re going to have to put her out,” he said.
Fairchild and the other doctor moved toward her.
“It doesn’t belong to you,” Jody cried. “You haven’t any right. You don’t know what it’s going to look like. It’s my baby. How can you know?”
At that moment Mallory entered, wearing a green medical gown. He heard what she was saying.
“Somebody’s informed her,” he said to Dr. Fairchild. “We’ve got to be careful.” He looked around the delivery room, suspecting everyone. “Make sure,” he said to the policemen, “no one gets in here you don’t know . . . you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said the policemen, as if a chorus.
“I’m going to have to talk to the husband,” Mallory said, speaking again to Fairchild. “He knows what’s going on, too, whoever the hell told him,” he continued, fixing Fairchild with his cold look, as if Fairchild were the leak.
Fairchild resented that look. After all he had been through, this vicious man was staring at him, implying that he was responsible for the Scotts having been told.
“You think I told, don’t you?” he said, unable to control his anger.
Mallory ignored him. This was no time for personal confrontations. Destroy the baby, keep it quiet, that was his only mission. “I’ll be right back,” he said, leaving the room.
Dr. Fairchild—obstetrician, respected member of Tucson society, golfing partner to the richest, most prominent people in southern Arizona—looked down sadly at Jody Scott. Seven months ago this slim, beautiful girl had come to his office joyous, laughing, sure she was pregnant. She had wanted the baby, a rare wish among professional women today.
It has all come to this, Dr. Fairchild thought as he stood over her, saying soothingly to her as four policemen held her in place, “It won’t be long now. Breathe deeply now, breathe.”
“Please,” Jody said, pleading more with her eyes than with her voice, “please don’t kill my baby.”
“Easy, Mrs. Scott, please take it easy,” said the doctor, wondering what would happen to his career should this get out; and it was bound to get out. After all, the husband was a lawyer, of all things. What a mess, the doctor said to himself, what a mess.
CHAPTER FOUR
Elsewhere on the second floor, the fire door opened and Frank Davis emerged. Immediately his way was blocked by two policemen.
“Hold it,” they commanded.
“I’m Dr. Fletcher,” said Frank, his story already concocted. “Mallory called me in.”
“Sorry, nobody’s allowed in,” said one of the policemen.
“Listen,” said Frank, “Mallory called me. If you don’t want any trouble, you better get me to him quick.”
The policemen looked at each other. The first one nodded.
“All right,” he sighed, and leaving the other to guard the door, he said, “Follow me, Doctor.”
They started off down the hall, Frank following his police escort.
Eugene sat helpless in the fathers’ waiting room, the same huge policeman guarding him, watching his every move. More policemen, plus half a dozen or so orderlies, waited in the hall ready for any sudden emergency. Occasionally one or two of the orderlies whispered to each other and peered in, sneaking a curious look at Eugene from the doorway.
Eugene looked up to catch one particularly inquisitive orderly gaping openly into the room, directly at Eugene. Seeing Eugene’s look, he glanced quickly away; and just as he did, a policeman, and then Frank Davis, moved quickly by that same doorway!
Instinctively, Eugene was on his feet heading for the doorway.
“Frank,” he yelled.
“Hold it!” called the burly cop, cutting off Eugene’s path to the door.
Frank, hearing his name, turned, and seeing the situation, kept on going, following the other cop to Mallory, as if the cop’s grabbing Eugene Scott had nothing to do with him.
An orderly, following Eugene’s gaze, turned to someone next to him.
“That guy,” he said, trying to get it straight in his own mind, “I’ve seen pict
ures of him.” Then he remembered. “That’s Frank Davis! That’s Frank Davis!” he screamed.
The big cop guarding Eugene came running out of the fathers’ waiting room. “Where’s Frank Davis?” he yelled.
“There! Down there, by the delivery room.” The orderly pointed.
Just then the delivery-room door swung open and out came Mallory.
“Sir,” the policeman leading Davis began to explain, “I brought this doctor—”
“Davis,” Mallory interrupted as he saw Frank Davis standing there. Now it was clear to him. Now he knew who had forewarned the Scotts. “I had a feeling we couldn’t trust you, Mr. Davis,” he said.
Davis saw the other policeman running toward them down the hall. It’s now or never, he thought.
Quickly he moved closer to Mallory. He held the clipboard high, in such a way that only Mallory could see the gun he now had pointed directly at Mallory’s chest.
“I’d like you to look at this chart, Mr. Mallory,” Frank said calmly. “Persuasive, isn’t it?”
Mallory saw the gun, and with almost a chuckle he sneered back at Davis: “What do you hope to gain by all this? You know this hospital is surrounded.”
“A life,” answered Davis.
“You’re crazy,” laughed Mallory.
“Call it temporary insanity, Mr. Mallory. Now tell them to bring Mr. Scott down here to see his wife. Go ahead!”
“Mr. Davis . . .” Mallory protested.
“Do it,” said Davis, jabbing the weapon hard into Mallory’s ribs. The police now saw the gun.
Mallory turned to the policeman nearest him, who looked as if he was about to lunge at Davis.
“Hold it,” said Mallory, guessing his intention. And then to the other cop, “Get Scott down here on the double!”
Davis turned to Mallory and said tauntingly—for whatever reason he hated this man, “Well said, Mallory.”
In the delivery room, Jody’s legs had already been placed in the stirrups and Dr. Fairchild had finished his preparations. A few minutes were all that remained.