“I’ll still see you on Friday?” he asked.
“Yes.” There was an odd note in her voice. Was she going to change her mind?
“It’s a date,” he said quickly. But of course it was not a date. It was a business appointment.
“Yes. Good-bye, Dr. Stevens.”
“Good-bye, Mrs. Blake. Thanks for calling. Thanks very much.” He hung up. And thought about Anne. And wondered if her husband had any idea what an incredibly lucky man he was.
What was her husband like? In the little Anne had said about him, Judd had formed the image of an attractive and thoughtful man. He was a sportsman, bright, was a successful businessman, donated money to the arts. He sounded like the kind of person Judd would have liked for a friend. Under different circumstances.
What could Anne’s problem have been that she was afraid to discuss with her husband? Or her analyst? With a person of Anne’s character, it was probably an overwhelming feeling of guilt because of an affair she had had either before she was married or after her marriage. He could not imagine her having casual affairs. Perhaps she would tell him on Friday. When he saw her for the last time.
The rest of the afternoon went by swiftly. Judd saw the few patients he had not been able to cancel. When the last one had departed, he took out the tape of Harrison Burke’s last session and played it, making occasional notes as he listened.
When he had finished, he switched the tape recorder off. There was no choice. He had to call Burke’s employer in the morning and inform him of Burke’s condition. He glanced out the window and was surprised to see that night had fallen. It was almost eight o’clock. Now that he had finished concentrating on his work, he suddenly felt stiff and tired. His ribs were sore and his arm had begun to throb. He would go home and soak in a nice hot bath.
He put away all the tapes except Burke’s, which he locked in a drawer of a side table. He would turn it over to a court-appointed psychiatrist. He put on his overcoat and was half way out the door when the phone rang. He went to the phone and picked it up. “Dr. Stevens.”
There was no answer on the other end. He heard breathing, heavy and nasal.
“Hello?”
There was no response. Judd hung up. He stood there a moment, frowning. Wrong number, he decided. He turned out the office lights, locked the doors, and moved toward the bank of elevators. All the tenants were long since gone. It was too early for the night shift of maintenance workers, and except for Bigelow, the watchman, the building was deserted.
Judd walked over to the elevator and pressed the call button. The signal indicator did not move. He pressed the button again. Nothing happened.
And at that moment all the lights in the corridor blacked out.
Chapter Seven
JUDD STOOD IN FRONT of the elevator, the wave of darkness lapping at him like a physical force. He could feel his heart slow and then begin to beat faster. A sudden, atavistic fear flooded his body, and he reached in his pockets for a book of matches. He had left them in the office. Perhaps the lights were working on the floors below. Moving slowly and cautiously, he groped his way toward the door that led to the stairwell. He pushed the door open. The stairwell was in darkness. Carefully holding onto the railing, he started down into the blackness. In the distance below, he saw the wavering beam of a flashlight moving up the stairs. He was filled with sudden relief. Bigelow, the watchman. “Bigelow!” he yelled. “Bigelow! It’s Dr. Stevens!” His voice bounced against the stone walls, echoing eerily through the stairwell. The figure holding the flashlight kept climbing silently, inexorably upward. “Who’s there?” Judd demanded. The only answer was the echo of his words.
And Judd suddenly knew who was there. His assassins. There had to be at least two of them. One had cut off the power in the basement while the other blocked the stairs to prevent his escape.