It Lives Again (7 page)

“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 pictures 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.

In the mobile unit behind the hsopital, Drs. Forrest and Westley waited anxiously.

The three nurses, Steven King, Billy Grant, and the girl, Barbara, peered out the large front window of the motor home, up toward the hospital.

“We could all go to jail for this,” said Steven, no doubt having second thoughts about this whole operation.

“I’m not so sure,” said Barbara, smiling. “We’re here to prevent a murder, aren’t we?”

“That’s right,” said Billy with a wry grin, “that’s what we’re doing.”

In the delivery room, Dr. Fairchild was just about to begin the delivery procedure when the door burst open and Mallory was shoved in, followed by Frank Davis and Eugene Scott. Davis pointed his gun at whoever dared come close.

“Stay away from the patient, Doctor,” Frank warned, suddenly swinging the gun in his direction.

“You can’t do this,” Fairchild protested.

Eugene moved toward his wife. “Jody,” he called softly.

Jody looked up and tried to focus. She was too weak to talk.

“That’s okay, honey. Everything’s okay,” Eugene said.

“I want you to give her a shot,” Frank said to Fairchild.

“A shot!” said Fairchild. “What kind of shot?”

“A shot to retard labor,” said Davis.

“Oh, of course,” agreed Dr. Fairchild, looking at the gun, “of course. Nurse,” he said.

The nearest nurse approached. Dr. Fairchild whispered something in her ear. Immediately she proceeded to the counter at the side of the delivery room and began filling a hypodermic needle.

“Give it up, Davis,” Mallory said. “It’s too late.”

“Shut up,” said Davis.

“Isn’t it too late, Doctor?” insisted Mallory, addressing Fairchild.

The nurse returned with the filled hypodermic needle.

“Not necessarily,” said Dr. Fairchild, grabbing the needle from the nurse. Dr. Fairchild saw this whole intrusion as a godsend. Shrewdly, he knew that if he could delay the birth and let someone else take over, he could be safely out of it when the time came to kill this creature. He could save himself a lot of grief and an almost certain multimillion-dollar lawsuit.

“Fairchild, you son of a bitch, don’t give her that needle! You understand?”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Mallory. The drug is perfectly safe and the man is holding a gun on me,” the suave doctor insisted. “Besides, I am obeying the instructions of my patients. Do you want me to give her this needle, Mr. Scott?” Dr. Fairchild asked, looking at Eugene.

Eugene looked at his wife. She looked up at him, her eyes, despite the pain, pleading to save her baby.

“Yes,” said Eugene emphatically.

Quickly Dr. Fairchild injected the drug into his patient. “There, it’s done,” he said, handing the empty needle to his nurse.

“You’ll be sorry for this, Dr. Fairchild,” said Mallory evenly.

“I don’t think so.” Fairchild smiled and walked away from the table. He sat down on a stool in the corner, relieved to be out of it. “I don’t think so,” he repeated.

Eugene unstrapped his wife, freeing her from her bondage, and Frank yelled instructions to policemen and medical people, moving them around with his gun. “Wheel that cart in here! Get her out of those stirrups! Tell them, Mallory!” he commanded.

Mallory, as if waiting his turn, now shrugged his shoulders as he instructed the policemen and the nurses to do exactly what Davis wanted. “It’s his ball game,” he said calmly. “Go ahead, do whatever he tells you.”

“Help him,” said Frank to the policemen, “help him with his wife,” he ordered. Eugene, with the policemen’s help, moved his wife from the maternity table onto the cart and stood ready to wheel her out of the delivery room. “All right, stand back! You ready, Eugene?”

“Ready,” answered Eugene.

“All right, let’s go,” said Frank.

“You’re committing suicide,” warned Mallory. “It’ll kill all of you.”

“Well, don’t worry about it, Mallory,” said Frank, “ ’cause we’re bringing you along to watch.”

Davis grabbed Mallory, and putting the gun to his head, instructed the two policemen: “Yon help Mr. Scott with the cart. Mr. Mallory is staying right with me just in case anyone tries anything. Let’s go!” he ordered.

Off they went, this strange caravan, Jody being pushed down the narrow hallway toward the emergency elevator, Frank warning anyone who wanted to be a hero to “stay back,” his gun leveled at Mallory’s head, using him as a hostage.

Other policemen, who had already passed them in the hallway, were now on their radios telling the policemen downstairs what the situation was. “Let them alone,” they warned. “They got Mallory. We’ll take them outside the hospital.”

As the emergency-elevator doors opened, a surprised attendant stared out at the strange waiting group. There was Jody on her table, Eugene, two policemen, and behind them Mallory with a gun in his ear. Running the whole show was Frank Davis.

“Get on,” Davis said. “Everybody!”

Downstairs, in the emergency area of the hospital, two derelicts were seated on the edge of a bench, holding each other up. Obviously they had been in some sort of fight, for they were explaining to the nurse’s aide that they always ended up “messing with each other when we get liquored up, we don’t mean nothing by it.”

Just then the elevator doors opened and out came the cart with the enormously pregnant Jody Scott on it, followed by the rest of the group. Right through the emergency section they marched, heading for the back door.

“Hey,” said one of the derelicts, “look at this!”

“You can’t come through here!” cried the nurse’s aide.

Mallory pointed to Davis, who still held the gun to his head. “It’s okay, lady, it’s okay. Let them alone!”

Sure of himself, Frank knew exactly where to go. “Take her down that ramp,” he said.

In the mobile home, Barbara was agitated. Big Steve, with all his muscles, was sitting there like a six-year-old child, methodically cracking his knuckles. Someday I’m going to tell that big jerk off, she thought to herself. She recalled with annoyance the trip down from Los Angeles earlier that night with Billy driving. Steve had tried to corner her in the back of the mobile home.

Suddenly the back door of the hospital crashed open. There they were, the woman on the table, the cops, Davis, two other men. “Look,” Barbara gasped. Drs. Westley and Forrest came running from the back of the motor home.

Speechlessly they watched this strange procession as it moved across the empty parking lot directly toward the mobile unit.

“Incredible!” said Dr. Westley, finding his voice.

Dr. Forrest, meanwhile, had the door open just in time to hear Davis instructing the policemen.

“Lift her; the cart comes apart. Just lift her off the cart,” he ordered.

Following his instructions, the police did just that. Lifting Jody, they handed her in through the open door to the two waiting male nurses.

“Easy,” said Davis, “easy,” taking charge as if he had been doing this sort of thing all his life.

Suddenly from around the corner six or seven police cars pulled up, surrounding Davis and the motor home.

“Inside,” shouted Frank. “Hurry up.” Eugene rushed into the unit. “All right,” said Frank, “lock it up.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Frank outside alone to face the police, with Mallory still his hostage.