home to Minneapolis and would
have her former doctor, Emmet Salem, deliver her baby. Hysteri
cal patient was persuaded to come inside. Obviously patient could
not be allowed to leave. Getting her a glass of water, this physi
cian dissolved cyanide crystals into the glass and forced patient to
swallow the poison. Patient expired at 8:51 p.m. Fetus was 26
weeks old. Had it been born it might have been viable.
Laying down the pen, he slipped the final entry into the manila
folder, then walked over to a panel on the bookcase. Reaching behind
a book, he touched a button, and the panel swung open,
revealing a wall safe. Quickly he opened the safe and inserted the
file, subconsciously noting the growing number of folders. He
could have recited the names on them by heart. Elizabeth Berkeley,
Anna Horan, Maureen Crowley, Linda Evans—over six dozen
of them: the successes and failures of his medical genius.
He closed the safe, snapped the panel back into place, then
went upstairs and got into bed. Had he overlooked anything? He'd
put the vial of cyanide in the safe. He'd get rid of the moccasins
tomorrow night. The events of the last hours whirled furiously
through his mind.
He'd drop his suit at the cleaners on the way to the hospital.
He'd find out what patient was in the center room on the second
floor of the hospital's east wing, what that patient could have seen.
Now he must sleep.
"IF YOU don't mind, we'd like you to leave through the rear
entrance," the nurse told Katie. "The front driveway froze over
terribly, and the workmen are trying to clear it. The cab will be
waiting in back."
"I don't care if I climb out the window, just as long as I can
get home," Katie said fervently. "And the misery is that I have to
come back here Friday. I'm having minor surgery on Saturday."
"Oh." The nurse looked at her chart. "What's wrong?"
"I seem to have inherited a problem my mother used to have.
I practically hemorrhage every month during my period."
"That must be why your blood count was so low when you
came in. Who's your doctor?"
"Dr. Highley."
"Oh, he's the best. He's top man in this place, you know." She
helped Katie with her coat.
The morning was cloudy and bitterly cold. Katie shivered as
she stepped out into the parking lot. In her nightmare, this was
the area she had been looking at from her room. A cab pulled up.
Gratefully she got in, wincing at the pain in her knees. "Where to,
lady?" the driver asked, and pressed the accelerator.
From the window of the room that Katie had just left, a man
was observing her departure. Her chart was in his hand. It read:
"Kathleen N. DeMaio, 10 Woodfield Way , Abbington. Place of Business: prosecutor's office, Valley County, New Jersey ."
He felt a thrill of fear go through him. Katie DeMaio.
There was a note on the chart that the night nurse had found
her sitting on the edge of the bed at two eight a.m. in an agitated
state and complaining about nightmares. The chart also showed
she had been given a sleeping pill, so she would have been pretty
groggy. But how much had she seen? Even if she thought she'd
been dreaming, her professional training would nag at her. She
was a risk, an unacceptable one.
CHAPTER TWO
SHOULDERS touching, Chris Lewis and Joan Moore sat in the end
booth of the Eighty-seventh Street drugstore, sipping coffee. Her left arm rested on the gold braid on his right sleeve. Their fingers
were entwined.
"I've missed you," he said carefully.
"I've missed you too, Chris. That's why I'm sorry you met me
this morning. It just makes it worse."
"Joan, give me a little time. I swear well work this out."
She shook her head. He saw how unhappy she looked. Her hazel
eyes were cloudy. Her light brown hair, pulled back in a chignon,
emphasized the paleness of her smooth, clear skin.
For the
have her former doctor, Emmet Salem, deliver her baby. Hysteri
cal patient was persuaded to come inside. Obviously patient could
not be allowed to leave. Getting her a glass of water, this physi
cian dissolved cyanide crystals into the glass and forced patient to
swallow the poison. Patient expired at 8:51 p.m. Fetus was 26
weeks old. Had it been born it might have been viable.
Laying down the pen, he slipped the final entry into the manila
folder, then walked over to a panel on the bookcase. Reaching behind
a book, he touched a button, and the panel swung open,
revealing a wall safe. Quickly he opened the safe and inserted the
file, subconsciously noting the growing number of folders. He
could have recited the names on them by heart. Elizabeth Berkeley,
Anna Horan, Maureen Crowley, Linda Evans—over six dozen
of them: the successes and failures of his medical genius.
He closed the safe, snapped the panel back into place, then
went upstairs and got into bed. Had he overlooked anything? He'd
put the vial of cyanide in the safe. He'd get rid of the moccasins
tomorrow night. The events of the last hours whirled furiously
through his mind.
He'd drop his suit at the cleaners on the way to the hospital.
He'd find out what patient was in the center room on the second
floor of the hospital's east wing, what that patient could have seen.
Now he must sleep.
"IF YOU don't mind, we'd like you to leave through the rear
entrance," the nurse told Katie. "The front driveway froze over
terribly, and the workmen are trying to clear it. The cab will be
waiting in back."
"I don't care if I climb out the window, just as long as I can
get home," Katie said fervently. "And the misery is that I have to
come back here Friday. I'm having minor surgery on Saturday."
"Oh." The nurse looked at her chart. "What's wrong?"
"I seem to have inherited a problem my mother used to have.
I practically hemorrhage every month during my period."
"That must be why your blood count was so low when you
came in. Who's your doctor?"
"Dr. Highley."
"Oh, he's the best. He's top man in this place, you know." She
helped Katie with her coat.
The morning was cloudy and bitterly cold. Katie shivered as
she stepped out into the parking lot. In her nightmare, this was
the area she had been looking at from her room. A cab pulled up.
Gratefully she got in, wincing at the pain in her knees. "Where to,
lady?" the driver asked, and pressed the accelerator.
From the window of the room that Katie had just left, a man
was observing her departure. Her chart was in his hand. It read:
"Kathleen N. DeMaio, 10 Woodfield Way , Abbington. Place of Business: prosecutor's office, Valley County, New Jersey ."
He felt a thrill of fear go through him. Katie DeMaio.
There was a note on the chart that the night nurse had found
her sitting on the edge of the bed at two eight a.m. in an agitated
state and complaining about nightmares. The chart also showed
she had been given a sleeping pill, so she would have been pretty
groggy. But how much had she seen? Even if she thought she'd
been dreaming, her professional training would nag at her. She
was a risk, an unacceptable one.
CHAPTER TWO
SHOULDERS touching, Chris Lewis and Joan Moore sat in the end
booth of the Eighty-seventh Street drugstore, sipping coffee. Her left arm rested on the gold braid on his right sleeve. Their fingers
were entwined.
"I've missed you," he said carefully.
"I've missed you too, Chris. That's why I'm sorry you met me
this morning. It just makes it worse."
"Joan, give me a little time. I swear well work this out."
She shook her head. He saw how unhappy she looked. Her hazel
eyes were cloudy. Her light brown hair, pulled back in a chignon,
emphasized the paleness of her smooth, clear skin.
For the
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