“No. Sometimes the family isn’t even aware that the patient is undergoing psychoanalysis.”
Moody leaned back, satisfied. “There you are,” he said.
Judd looked at him. “You think that some member of a patient’s family is trying to kill me?”
“Could be.”
“They’d have no more motive than the patient. Less, probably.”
Moody painfully pushed himself to his feet. “You never know, do you, Doc? Tell you what I’d like you to do. Get me a list of all the patients you’ve seen in the last four or five weeks. Can you do that?”
Judd hesitated. “No,” he said, finally.
“That confidential patient-doctor business? I think maybe it’s time to bend that a little. Your life’s at stake.”
“I think you’re on the wrong track. What’s been happening has nothing to do with my patients or their families. If there had been any insanity in their families, it would have come out in the psychoanalysis.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Moody. I have to protect my patients.”
“You said there was nothing in the files that was important.”
“Nothing that’s important to us.” He thought of some of the material in the files. John Hanson picking up sailors in gay bars on Third Avenue. Teri Washburn making love to the boys in the band. Fourteen-year-old Evelyn Warshak, the resident prostitute in the ninth grade… “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I can’t show you the files.”
Moody shrugged. “OK,” he said. “OK. Then you’re gonna have to do part of my job for me.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Take out the tapes on everybody you’ve had on your couch for the last month. Listen real careful to each one. Only this time don’t listen like a doctor—listen like a detective—look for anything the least bit offbeat.”
“I do that anyway. That’s my job.”
“Do it again. An’ keep your eyes open. I don’t want to lose you ‘til we solve this case.” He picked up his overcoat and struggled into it, making it look like an elephant ballet. Fat men were supposed to be graceful, thought Judd, but that did not include Mr. Moody. “Do you know the most peculiar thing about this whole megillah?” queried Moody thoughtfully.
“What?”
“You put your finger on it before, when you said there were two men. Maybe one man might have a burning itch to knock you off—but why two?”
“I don’t know.”
Moody studied him a moment, speculatively. “By God!” he finally said.
“What is it?”
“I just might have a brainstorm. If I’m right, there could be more than two men out to kill you.”
Judd stared at him incredulously. “You mean there’s a whole group of maniacs after me? That doesn’t make sense.”
There was a look of growing excitement on Moody’s face. “Doctor, I’ve got an idea who the umpire in this ballgame might be.” He looked at Judd, his eyes bright. “I don’t know how yet, or why—but it could be I know who.”
“Who?”
Moody shook his head. “You’d have me sent to a cracker factory if I told you. I always say if you’re gonna shoot off your mouth, make sure it’s loaded first. Let me do a little target practice. If I’m on the right track, I’ll tell you.”
“I hope you are,” Judd said earnestly.
Moody looked at him a moment. “No, Doc. If you value your life worth a damn—pray I’m wrong.”
And Moody was gone.
He took a taxi to the office.
It was Friday noon, and with only three more shopping days until Christmas, the streets were crowded with late shoppers, bundled up against the raw wind sweeping in from the Hudson River. The store windows were festive and bright, filled with lighted Christmas trees and carved figures of the Nativity. Peace on Earth. Christmas. And Elizabeth, and their unborn baby. One day soon—if he survived—he would have to make his own peace, free himself from the dead past and let go. He knew that with Anne he could have…He firmly stopped himself. What was the point in fantasizing about a married woman about to go away with her husband, whom she loved?
The taxi pulled up in front of his office building and Judd got out, nervously looking around. But what could he look for? He had no idea what the murder weapon would be, or who would wield it.