“Why do you think you have these headaches every week?”
“How the fuck do I know? You’re supposed to be a doctor. You tell me. I don’t pay you to sit on your fat ass for an hour asking stupid questions. Jesus Christ, if an idiot like you can’t cure a simple headache, they shouldn’t let you be running around loose, messing up people’s lives. Where’d you get your medical certificate? From a veterinarian school? I wouldn’t trust my fuckin’ cats with you. You’re a goddam quack! The only reason I came to you in the first place was because Sally shitted me into it. It was the only way I could get her off my back. Do ya know my definition of Hell? Bein’ married to an ugly, skinny nag for fifteen years. If you’re lookin’ for some more suckers to cheat, take on her two idiot brothers, Ben an’ Charley. Ben, my head writer, doesn’t know which end of the pencil has the lead in it, an’ his brother’s even stupider. I wish they’d all drop dead. They’re out to get me. You think I like you? You stink! You’re so goddam smug, sitting there looking down on everybody. You haven’t got any problems, have you? Do you know why? Because you’re not for real. You’re out of it. All you do is sit on your fat keester all day long an’ steal money from sick people. Well, I’m gonna get you, you sonofabitch. I’m gonna report you to the AMA…”
Sobbing.
“I wish I didn’t have to go to that goddam reading.”
Silence.
“Well—keep your pecker up. See ya next week, sweetie.”
Judd switched off the recorder. Skeet Gibson, America’s most beloved comedian, should have been institutionalized ten years ago. His hobbies were beating up young, blond showgirls and getting into barroom brawls. Skeet was a small man, but he had started out as a prizefighter, and he knew how to hurt. One of his favorite sports was going into a gay bar, coaxing an unsuspecting homosexual into the men’s room, and beating him unconscious. Skeet had been picked up by the police several times, but the incidents had always been hushed up. After all, he was America’s most lovable comic. Skeet was paranoid enough to want to kill, and he was capable of killing in a fit of rage. But Judd did not think he was cold-blooded enough to carry out this kind of planned vendetta. And in that, Judd felt certain, lay the key to the solution. Whoever was trying to murder him was doing it not in the heat of any passion, but methodically and cold-bloodedly. A madman.
Who was not mad.
Chapter Eleven
THE PHONE RANG. It was his answering service. They had been able to reach all his patients except Anne Blake. Judd thanked the operator and hung up.
So Anne was coming here today. He was disturbed at how unreasonably happy he was at the thought of seeing her. He must remember that she was only coming by because he had asked her to, as her doctor. He sat there thinking about Anne. How much he knew about her…and how little.
He put Anne’s tape on the tape recorder and listened to it. It was one of her first visits.
“Comfortable, Mrs. Blake?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Relaxed?”
“Yes.”
“You’re clenching your fists.”
“Perhaps I am a little tense.”
“About what?”
A long silence.
“Tell me about your home life. You’ve been married six months.”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“I’m married to a wonderful man. We live in a beautiful house.”
“What kind of house is it?”
“Country French…It’s a lovely old place. There’s a long, winding driveway leading to it. High up on the roof there’s a funny old bronze rooster with its tail missing. I think some hunter shot it off a long time ago. We have about five acres, mostly wooded. I go for long walks. It’s like living in the country.”
“Do you like the country?”
“Very much.”
“Does your husband?”
“I think so.”
“A man doesn’t usually buy five acres in the country un less he loves it.”
“He loves me. He would have bought it for me. He’s very generous.”