His time had run out.
The two men moved soundlessly toward Judd’s apartment and took positions on either side of the door. The larger of the men, Rocky, softly tried the door. It was locked. He took out a celluloid card and carefully inserted it over the lock. He nodded to his brother, and both men took out revolvers with silencers on them. Rocky slid the celluloid card against the lock and pushed the unresisting door open, slowly. They walked into the living room, guns held out in front of them. They were confronted by three closed doors. There was no sign of Judd. The smaller brother, Nick, tried the first door. It was locked. He smiled at his brother, put the muzzle of his gun against the lock, and pulled the trigger. The door noiselessly swung open into a bedroom. The two men moved inside, guns sweeping the room.
There was no one inside. Nick checked the closets while Rocky returned to the living room. They moved without haste, knowing that Judd was in the apartment hiding, helpless. There was almost deliberate enjoyment in their unhurried movements, as though they were savoring the moments before the kill.
Nick tried the second closed door. It was locked. He shot the bolt out and moved into the room. It was the den. Empty. They grinned at each other and walked toward the last closed door. As they passed the TV monitor, Rocky caught his brother’s arm. On the set they could see three men hurrying into the lobby. Two of them, wearing the white jackets of interns, were pushing a wheeled stretcher. The third carried a medical bag.
“What the hell!”
“Keep your cool, Rocky. So someone’s sick. There must be a hundred apartments in this building.”
They watched the TV set in fascination as the two interns wheeled the stretcher into the elevator. The group disappeared inside it, and the elevator door closed.
“Give them a couple minutes.” It was Nick. “It could be some kind of accident. That means there might be cops.”
“Of all the fuckin’ luck!”
“Don’t worry. Stevens ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
The door to the apartment burst open and the doctor and the two interns entered, pushing the stretcher ahead of them. Swiftly the two killers shoved their guns into their overcoat pockets.
The doctor walked up to the brother. “Is he dead?”
“Who?”
“The suicide victim. Is he dead or alive?”
The two killers looked at each other, bewildered. “You guys got the wrong apartment.”
The doctor pushed past the two killers and tried the bedroom door. “It’s locked. Help me break it down.” The two brothers watched helplessly as the doctor and the interns smashed the door open with their shoulders. The doctor stepped into the bedroom. “Bring the stretcher.” He moved to the bedside where Judd lay on the bed. “Are you all right?”
Judd looked up, trying to make his eyes focus. “Hospital,” mumbled Judd.
“You’re on your way.”
As the two killers watched in frustration, the interns wheeled the stretcher into the bedroom, skillfully slid Judd onto it, and wrapped him in blankets.
“Let’s blow,” said Rocky.
The doctor watched the two men leave. Then he turned to Judd, who lay on the stretcher, his face white and haggard. “Are you all right, Judd?” His voice was filled with deep concern.
Judd tried a smile that didn’t come off. “Great,” he said. He could scarcely hear his own voice. “Thanks, Pete.”
Peter looked down at his friend, then nodded to the two interns. “Let’s go!”
Chapter Eighteen
THE HOSPITAL ROOM was different, but the nurse was the same. A glaring bundle of disapproval. Seated at his bedside, she was the first thing that Judd saw when he opened his eyes.
“Well. We’re up,” she said primly. “Dr. Harris wants to see you. I’ll tell him we’re awake.” She walked stiffly out of the room.
Judd sat up, moving carefully. Arm and leg reflexes a bit slow, but unimpaired. He tried focusing on a chair across the room, one eye at a time. His vision was a little blurred.
“Want a consultation?”
He looked up. Dr. Seymour Harris had come into the room.