“Who gave you the right to tell people how to love, Doctor? You sit there in your office like some kind of god, condemning everyone who doesn’t think like you.”
That’s not true, Judd was answering somewhere in his mind. Hanson had never had choices before. I gave him choices. And he didn’t choose you.
“Now Johnny’s dead,” said the blond giant towering over him. “You killed my Johnny. And now I’m going to kill you.”
He felt another kick behind his ear, and he began to slip into unconsciousness. Some remote part of his mind watched with a detached interest as the rest of him began to die. That small isolated piece of intelligence in his cerebellum continued to function, its impulses flashing out weakening patterns of thought. He reproached himself for not having come closer to the truth. He had expected the killer to be a dark, Latin type, and he was blond. He had been sure that the killer was not a homosexual, and he had been wrong. He had found his homicidal maniac, and now he was going to die for it.
He lost consciousness.
Chapter Sixteen
SOME DISTANT, remote part of his mind was trying to send him a message, trying to communicate something of cosmic importance, but the hammering deep inside his skull was so agonizing that he was unable to concentrate on anything else. Somewhere nearby, he could hear a high-pitched keening, like a wounded wild animal. Slowly, painfully, Judd opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed in a strange room. In a corner of the room, Bruce Boyd was weeping uncontrollably.
Judd started to sit up. The wracking pain in his body flooded his memory with recollection of what had happened to him, and he was suddenly filled with a wild, savage fury.
Boyd turned as he heard Judd stir. He walked over to the bed. “It’s your fault,” he whimpered. “If it hadn’t been for you, Johnny would still be safe with me.”
Without volition, propelled by some long-forgotten, deeply buried instinct for vengeance, Judd reached for Boyd’s throat, his fingers closing around his windpipe, squeezing with all their strength. Boyd made no move to protect himself. He stood there, tears streaming down his face. Judd looked into his eyes, and it was like looking into a pool of hell. Slowly his hands dropped away. My God, he thought, I’m a doctor. A sick man attacks me and I want to kill him. He looked at Boyd, and he was looking at a destroyed, bewil dered child.
And suddenly he realized what his subconscious had been trying to tell him: Bruce Boyd was not Don Vinton. If he had been, Judd would not be alive now. Boyd was incapable of committing murder. So he had been right about him not fitting the identi-kit of the killer. There was a certain ironic consolation in that.
“If it weren’t for you, Johnny would be alive,” Boyd sobbed. “He’d be here with me and I could have protected him.”
“I didn’t ask John Hanson to leave you,” Judd said wearily. “It was his idea.”
“You’re a liar!”
“Things had been going wrong between you and John before he came to see me.”
There was a long silence. Then Boyd nodded. “Yes. We—we were quarreling all the time.”
“He was trying to find himself, and his instincts kept telling him that he wanted to go back to his wife and children. Deep down inside, John wanted to be heterosexual.”
“Yes,” whispered Boyd. “He used to talk about it all the time, and I thought it was just to punish me.” He looked up at Judd. “But one day he left me. He just—moved out. He stopped loving me.” There was despair in his voice.
“He didn’t stop loving you,” Judd said. “Not as a friend.”
Boyd was looking at him now, his eyes riveted on Judd’s face. “Will you help me?” His eyes were filled with desperation. “H-help me. You’ve got to help me!”
It was a cry of anguish. Judd looked at him a long moment. “Yes,” Judd said. “I’ll help you.”
“Will I be normal?”
“There’s no such thing as normal. Each person carries his own normality within him, and no two people are alike.”