“Can you make me heterosexual?”
“That depends on how much you really want to be. We can give you psychoanalysis.”
“And if it fails?”
“If we find that you’re meant to be homosexual, at least you’ll be better adjusted to it.”
“When can we start?” Boyd asked.
And Judd was jolted back to reality. He was sitting here talking about treating a patient when, for all he knew, he was going to be murdered within the next twenty-four hours. And he was still no closer to finding out who Don Vinton was. He had eliminated Teri and Boyd, the last suspects on his list. He knew no more now than when he had started. If his analysis of the killer was correct, by now he would have worked himself up to a murderous rage. The next attack would come very, very soon.
“Call me Monday,” he said.
As the taxi took him toward his apartment building, Judd tried to weigh his chances of survival. They looked bleak. What could he have that Don Vinton wanted so desperately? And who was Don Vinton? How could he have had no police record? Could he be using some other name? No. Moody had clearly said “Don Vinton.”
It was difficult to concentrate. Every movement of the taxi sent spasms of excruciating pain through his bruised body. Judd thought about the murders and attempted murders that had been committed so far, looking for some kind of pattern that made sense. A knifing, murder by torture, a hit-and-run “accident,” a bomb in his car, strangulation. There was no pattern that he could discern. Only a ruthless, maniacal violence. He had no way of knowing how the next attempt would be made. Or by whom. His greatest vulnerability would be the office and his apartment. He remembered Angeli’s advice. He must have stronger locks put on the doors of the apartment. He would tell Mike, the doorman, and Eddie, the elevator operator, to keep their eyes open. He could trust them.
The taxi pulled up in front of his apartment house. The doorman opened the taxi door.
He was a total stranger.
Chapter Seventeen
HE WAS A LARGE, swarthy man with a pockmarked face and deep-set black eyes. An old scar ran across his throat. He was wearing Mike’s uniform coat and it was too tight for him.
The taxi pulled away and Judd was alone with the man. He was struck by a sudden wave of pain. My God, not now! He gritted his teeth. “Where’s Mike?” he asked.
“On vacation, Doctor.”
Doctor. So the man knew who he was. And Mike on vacation? In December?
There was a small smile of satisfaction on the man’s face. Judd looked up and down the windswept street, but it was completely deserted. He could try to make a run for it, but in his condition he wouldn’t stand a chance. His body was beaten and sore, and it hurt every time he took a breath.
“You look like you been in an accident.” The man’s voice was almost genial.
Judd turned without answering and walked into the lobby of the apartment building. He could count on Eddie to get help.
The doorman followed Judd into the lobby. Eddie was in the elevator, his back turned. Judd started walking toward the elevator, every step a separate agony. He knew he dared not falter now. The important thing was not to let the man catch him alone. He would be afraid of witnesses. “Eddie!” Judd called.
The man in the elevator turned.
Judd had never seen him before. He was a smaller version of the doorman, except that there was no scar. It was obvious that the two men were brothers.
Judd stopped, trapped between the two of them. There was no one else in the lobby.
“Goin’ up,” said the man in the elevator. He had the same satisfied smile as his brother.
So these, finally, were the faces of death. Judd was sure that neither of them was the brain behind what was happening. They were hired professional killers. Would they kill him in the lobby, or would they prefer to do it in his apartment? His apartment, he reasoned. That would give them more time to make their escape before his body was found.