Finally he stood up, staring at the battered moccasin he was holding. Again he saw himself tugging the shoe off Vangie’s right foot.
The right shoe.
The shoe he was holding.
Hysterically he began to laugh—noisy, rattling sounds wrenched from the frustrated fury of his being. After all the danger, after the ignominious crawling around the parking lot like a dog sniffing to pick up a scent, he had botched it.
Somehow in the dark, probably that time he’d shrunk against the shrubbery when the car roared into the parking lot, the shoe had fallen out of his pocket. The shoe he’d found was the one he’d already had.
And somewhere, the battered, shabby, ugly left moccasin that Vangie Lewis had been wearing was waiting to be found; waiting to trace her footsteps back to him.
♦15♦
Katie had set the clock radio for six A.M., but was wide awake long before the determinedly cheery voice of the CBS anchorman wished her a bright morning. Her sleep had been troubled; several times she’d almost started to jump up, frightened by a vague, troubling dream.
She always turned the thermostat low at night. Shivering, she ran to adjust it, then quickly made coffee and brought a cup back upstairs to bed.
Propped against the pillows, the thick comforter wrapped around her, she eagerly sipped as the heat of the cup began to warm her fingers. “That’s better,” she murmured. “And now, what’s the matter with me?”
The antique Williamsburg dresser with its oval center mirror was directly opposite the bed. She glanced into it. Her hair was tousled, a dark brown smudge against the ivory eyelet-edged pillowcases. The bruise under her eye was now purple tinged with yellow. Her eyes were swollen with sleep. Deep crescents accentuated the thinness of her face. As Mama would say, I look like something the cat dragged in, she reflected.
But it was more than the way she looked. It was even more than the overall achiness from the accident. It was a heavy feeling of apprehension. Had she started to dream that queer, frightening nightmare again last night? She couldn’t be sure.
Vangie Lewis. A line from John’s funeral service came to her:” We who are saddened at the certainty of death . . .” Death was certain, of course. But not like that. It was bad enough to think of Vangie taking her own life, but it seemed impossible that anyone would choose to kill her by forcing cyanide down her throat. She simply didn’t believe Chris Lewis was capable of that kind of violence.
She thought of Dr. Highley’s call. That damn operation. Oh, there were thousands of D-and-C’s performed every year on women of every age. It wasn’t the operation itself. It was the reason for it. Suppose the D-and-C didn’t clear up the hemorrhaging? Dr. Highley had hinted that eventually it might be necessary to consider a hysterectomy.
If only she had become pregnant during the year with John. But she hadn’t. Suppose she did remarry someday. Wouldn’t it be a bitter, miserable trick if by then she couldn’t have children? Knock it off, she warned herself. Remember that line from Faust? We weep for what we may never lose.
Well, at least she was getting the operation over with. Check in Friday night. Operation Saturday, home Sunday. At work Monday. No big deal.
Molly had called her after she got to the office yesterday. She’d said, “Katie, I could tell you didn’t want me to talk in front of Richard, but don’t you think it would be better to postpone going to the hospital till next month? You got a pretty good shaking up.”
She’d been vehement. “No way. I want to be through with this; and besides, Molly, I wouldn’t be surprised if this darn business contributed to the accident. I felt light-headed a couple of times Monday.”
Molly had been distressed. “Why didn’t you tell me?
“Oh, come on,” Katie had said. “You and I both hate complainers. When it’s really bad, I swear I’ll yell for you.”
“I hope so,” Molly said. “I guess you might as well get it over with.” Then she’d asked, “Are you going to tell Richard?”
Katie had tried not to sound exasperated. “No, and I’m not going to tell the elevator operator or the street-crossing guard or Dial-a-Friend. Just you and Bill. And that’s where we leave it. Okay?”
“Okay. And don’t be a smart-ass.” Molly had hung up decisively, her tone a combination of affection and authoritativeness, the warning-signal voice she used when one of the kids was getting out of line.
I’m not your child, Molly, girl, Katie thought now. I love you, but I’m not your child. But as she sipped the coffee she wondered if she was leaning too much on Molly and Bill, drawing emotional support from them. Was she indeed coasting on their coattails out of the mainstream of life?
Oh, John. She glanced instinctively at his picture. This morning it was just that, a picture. A handsome, grave-looking man with gentle, penetrating eyes. Once during that first year after his death she’d picked up that picture, stared at it, then slammed it face down on the dresser crying, “How could you have left me?”
The next morning she’d been back on balance, ashamed of herself, and had made a resolution never to have three glasses of wine when she was feeling low. When she’d straightened the picture, she’d found a gouge in the lovely old dresser top which had been caused by the embossed silver frame. She’d tried to explain to the picture. “It isn’t just self-pity, Judge. I’m angry for you. I wanted you to have another forty years. You knew how to enjoy life; how to do something worthwhile with life.”
For who hath known the mind of the Lord? or who hath been His counsellor? That phrase from the Bible had flitted across her mind that day.
Remembering, Katie thought, I’d better think along those lines now.
Stripping off her pale green nightgown, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The nightgown trailed over the bench at her dressing table. In college she’d favored striped drop-seat p. j. ‘s. But John had bought her exquisite gowns and peignoirs in Italy. It still seemed appropriate to wear them here in this house, in his bedroom.
Maybe Richard was right. Maybe she was keeping a deathwatch. John would be the first one to blast her for that.
The hot shower helped to pick up her spirits. She had a plea-bargaining session scheduled for nine, a sentencing at ten and two new cases to begin preparing for trial for next week. And she had plenty of work to do on this Friday’s trial. It’s Wednesday already, she thought with dismay. I’d better get a move on.
She dressed quickly, selecting a soft brown wool skirt and a new turquoise silk shirt with full sleeves that covered the bandage on her arm.
The loan car from the service station arrived as she finished a second coffee. She dropped the driver back at the station, whistled as she saw the extensive damage to the front of her car, counted her blessings that she hadn’t been seriously injured and drove to the office.
It had been a busy night in the county. A fourteen-year-old girl had been raped. People were talking about a drunken-driving accident that had resulted in four deaths. A local police chief had called requesting that the Prosecutor help set up a lineup for the victim to view suspects who had been picked up after an armed robbery.
Scott was just coming out of his office. “Lovely night,” Katie observed.
He nodded. “Son of a bitch—that jerk who rammed into the car with all those kids was so blotto he couldn’t stand up straight. All four kids were killed. They were seniors at Pascal Hills on the way to a prom-committee meeting. Incidentally, I was planning to send Rita over to talk to the doctors at Westlake Hospital, but she’s covering the rape case. I’m especially interested in the psychiatrist Vangie Lewis was going to. I’d like his opinion as to her mental state. I can send Charley or Phil, but I think a woman would be less noticeable over there, might be able to drift around a bit and see if Mrs. Lewis talked to the nurses or became friendly with other patients. But it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Rita’s been up all night, and now she’s driving around with that kid who was raped to see if she can spot her attacker. We’
re pretty sure he lives near her.”
Katie hesitated. She had not planned to tell Scott that she was Dr. Highley’s patient or that she’d be checking into Westlake Friday night. But it would be unthinkable to have someone from the office report that to him. She temporized. “Maybe I can help out. Dr. Highley is my gynecologist. I actually have an appointment with him today.” She pressed her lips together, deciding there was no need to go into a tiresome recital about her scheduled operation.
Scott’s eyebrows shot up. As always when he was surprised, his voice became deeper. “What are your impressions of him? Richard made some crack yesterday about Vangie’s condition; seemed to think that Highley was taking chances with her.”
Katie shook her head. “I don’t agree with Richard. Dr. Highley’s specialty is difficult pregnancies. He’s practically considered a miracle man. That’s the very point. He tries to bring to viable term the babies other doctors lose.” She thought of his phone call to her. “I can vouch for the fact that he’s a very concerned doctor.”
Scott’s frown made deep crease lines in his forehead and around his eyes. “That’s your gut-level reaction to him? How long have you known him?”
Trying to be objective, Katie thought about the doctor. “I don’t know him long or well. The gynecologist I used to go to retired and moved a couple of years ago, and I’d just not bothered about another one. Then when I started having trouble—well, anyhow, my sister Molly knew about Dr. Highley because her friend raves about him. Molly goes to someone in New York, and I didn’t want to bother with that. So I made an appointment last month. He’s very knowledgeable.” She remembered her examination. He had been gentle but thorough. “You’re quite right to have come,” he’d said. “In fact, I must suggest, that you should not have ignored this condition for over a year. I think of the womb as a cradle that must always be kept in good repair.”
The one thing that had surprised her was that he did not have a nurse in attendance. Her other gynecologist had always called the nurse in before he began an examination; but then, he’d been from another generation. She judged Dr. Highley to be in his mid-forties.
“What’s your schedule today?” Scott asked.
“Busy morning, but this afternoon is adjustable.”
“All right. You go see Highley, and talk to the shrink too. Get a feeling of whether or not they think she was capable of suicide. Find out when she was over there last. See if she talked about the husband. Charley and Phil are checking on Chris Lewis now. I was awake half the night and kept thinking that Richard is right. Something about that suicide stinks. Talk to the nurses too.”
“Not the nurses,” Katie smiled. “The receptionist, Edna. She knows everybody’s business. I wasn’t in the waiting room two minutes last month before I found myself giving her my life history. In fact, maybe you ought to hire her to interrogate witnesses.”
“I ought to hire a lot of people,” Scott commented dryly. “Talk to the Board of Freeholders. All right, I’ll see you later.”
Katie went into her own office, grabbed her files and rushed to her appointment with a defense attorney about an indicted defendant. She agreed to drop a heroin charge from “possession with intent to distribute” to simple “possession.” From there she hurried to a second-floor courtroom where she reflectively listened as a twenty-year-old youth she had prosecuted was sentenced to seven years in prison. He could have received twenty years for the armed robbery and atrocious assault. Of the seven years, he’d probably serve one-third the term and be back on the streets. She knew his record by heart. Forget rehabilitation with this bird, she thought.
In the sheaf of messages waiting for her, there were two phone calls from Dr. Carroll. One had come in at nine fifteen, the other at nine forty. She called back, but Richard was out on a case. Her feeling of slight pressure at the two calls was replaced by a sensation of disappointment when she couldn’t reach him.
She phoned Dr. Highley’s office fully expecting to hear the nasal warmth of Edna’s voice. But whoever answered was a stranger, a crisp, low-spoken woman. “Doctors’ offices.”
“Oh!” Katie thought swiftly and decided to ask for Edna. “Is Miss Burns there?”
There was a fraction of a minute’s pause before the answer came. “Miss Burns won’t be in today. She called in sick. I’m Mrs. Fitzgerald.”
Katie realized how much she was counting on talking to Edna. “I’m sorry Miss Burns is not well.” Briefly she explained that Dr. Highley expected her call and that she’d also like to see Dr. Fukhito. Mrs. Fitzgerald put her on hold and a few minutes later came back on the line.
“They’ll both see you, of course. Dr. Fukhito is free fifteen minutes before the hour anytime between two and five, and Dr. Highley would prefer three o’clock if it is also convenient for you.”
“Three o’clock with Dr. Highley is fine,” Katie said, “and then please confirm three forty-five with Dr. Fukhito.” Lowering the phone, she turned to the work on her desk.
At lunchtime, Maureen Crowley, one of the office secretaries, popped her head in and offered to bring a sandwich to Katie. Deep in preparation for Friday’s trial, Katie nodded affirmatively.
“Ham on rye with mustard and lettuce and dark coffee,” Maureen said.
Katie looked up, surprised. “Am I really that predictable?”
The girl was about nineteen, with a mane of red-gold hair, emerald-green eyes and the lovely pale complexion of the true redhead. “Katie, I have to tell you, about food you’re in a rut.” The door closed behind her.
“You look peaked.” “You’re on a deathwatch.” “You’re in a rut.”
Katie swallowed over a hard lump in her throat and was astonished to realize she was close to tears. I must be sick if I’m getting this thin-skinned, she thought.
When the sandwich and coffee arrived, she ate and sipped, only vaguely aware of what she was having. The case on which she was trying to concentrate was a total blur. Vangie Lewis’ face was constantly before her. But why had she seen it in a nightmare?
♦16♦
Richard Carroll had had a rough night. The phone rang at eleven o’clock, a few minutes after he got home from Katie’s house, to inform him that four kids were in the morgue.
He replaced the receiver slowly. He lived on the seventeenth floor of a high-rise north of the George Washington Bridge. For moments he stared out the wall-length picture window at the New York skyline, at the cars darting swiftly down the Henry Hudson Parkway, at the blue-green lights that revealed and silhouetted the graceful lines of the George Washington Bridge.
Right now phones were ringing to tell the parents of those youngsters that their children wouldn’t be coming home.
Richard looked around his living room. It was comfortably furnished with an oversized sofa, roomy armchairs, an Oriental rug in tones of blue and brown, a wall bookcase and sturdy oak tables that had once graced the parlor of a New England ancestor’s farmhouse. Original watercolors with sailing themes were scattered tastefully on the walls. Richard sighed. His deep leather reclining chair was next to the bookcase. He’d planned to fix a nightcap, read for an hour and turn in. Instead he decided to go to the morgue to be there when the parents came to identify those youngsters. God knew there was precious little anyone could do for those people, but he knew he’d feel better for trying.
It was four A.M. before he got back to the apartment. As he undressed he wondered if he was getting too saddened by this job. Those kids were so messed up; the crash impact had been terrific. Yet you could see how attractive they’d all been in life. One girl particularly got under his skin. She had dark hair, a slim, straight nose, and even in death she was graceful.
She reminded him of Katie.
The thought that Katie had been in an automobile accident Monday night jolted Richard anew. It seemed to him that they’d progressed light-years in their relationship in the couple of hours they’d spent together at dinner.
What was she afraid of, poor kid
? Why couldn’t she let go of John DeMaio? Why couldn’t she say “Thanks for the memory” and move on?
As he got into bed he felt bleakly grateful that he’d been able to help the parents a little. He’d been able to assure them that the youngsters had died instantly, that they probably never knew or felt anything.
He slept restlessly for two hours and was in the office by seven. A few minutes later a summons came that an old lady had hanged herself in a deteriorating section of Chester, a small town at the north end of the county. He went to the death scene. The dead woman was eighty-one years old, frail and birdlike. A note was pinned to her dress: There’s nobody left. I’m so sick and tired. I want to be with Sam. Please forgive me for causing trouble.
The note brought into focus something that had been nagging Richard. From everything he’d heard about Vangie Lewis, it seemed in character that if she’d taken her life, she’d have left a note to explain or to blame her action on her husband.
Most women left notes.
When he got back to the office Richard tried phoning Katie twice, hoping to catch her between court sessions. He wanted to hear the sound of her voice. For some reason he’d felt edgy about leaving her alone in that big house last night. But he was unable to reach her.
Why did he have a hunch that she had something on her mind that was troubling her?
He went back to the lab and worked straight through until four thirty. Returning to his office, he picked up his messages and was absurdly pleased to see that Katie had returned his calls. Why wouldn’t she? he asked himself cynically. An assistant prosecutor wouldn’t ignore calls from the Medical Examiner. Quickly he phoned her. The switchboard operator in the Prosecutor’s section said that Katie had left and wouldn’t be back today. The operator didn’t know where she was going.
The Cradle Will Fall Page 8