Sidney Sheldon - The Naked Face

Judd took her hands in his. “Teri,” he said. “I need your help.”

Her mind was traveling in its own groove. “I know, baby,” she moaned. “I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked in your life.”

“Teri—listen to me! Someone is trying to murder me!”

Her eyes registered slow surprise. Acting—or real? He remembered a performance he had seen her give on one of the late late shows. Real. She was good, but not that good an actress.

“For Christ sake! Who—who’d want to murder you?”

“It could be someone connected with one of my patients.”

“But—Jesus—why?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Teri. Have any of your friends ever talked about killing .. . or murder? Maybe as a party game, for laughs?”

Teri shook her head. “No.”

“Do you know anyone named Don Vinton?” He watched her closely.

“Don Vinton? Uhn-uhn. Should I?”

“Teri—how do you feel about murder?” A small shiver went through her body. He was holding her wrists and he could feel her pulse racing. “Does murder excite you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it,” Judd insisted. “Does the thought of it excite you?”

Her pulse was beginning to skip irregularly. “No! Of course not.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the man you killed in Hollywood?”

Without warning she reached out to rake his face with her long fingernails. He grabbed her wrists.

“You rotten sonofabitch! That was twenty years ago. .. . So that’s why you came. Get out of here. Get out! She collapsed in sobbing hysteria.

Judd watched her a moment. Teri was capable of being involved in a thrill murder. Her insecurity, her total lack of self-esteem, would make her easy prey to anyone who wanted to use her. She was like a piece of soft clay lying in the gutter. The person who picked her up could mould her into a beautiful statue—or into a deadly weapon. The question was, Who had picked her up last? Don Vinton?

Judd got to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said.

He walked out of the pink apartment.

Bruce Boyd occupied a house in a converted mews off the park in Greenwich Village. The door was opened by a white-jacketed Filipino butler. Judd gave his name and was invited to wait in the foyer. The butler disappeared. Ten minutes went by, then fifteen. Judd checked his irritation. Perhaps he should have told Detective Angeli he was coming here. If Judd’s theory was right, the next attempt on his life would take place very soon. And his attacker would try to make certain of his success.

The butler reappeared. “Mr. Boyd will see you now,” he said. He led Judd upstairs to a tastefully decorated study, then discreetly withdrew.

Boyd was at a desk, writing. He was a beautiful man with sharp, delicate features, an aquiline nose, and a sensuous, full mouth. He had blond hair curled into ringlets. He got to his feet as Judd entered. He was about six foot three with the chest and shoulders of a football player. Judd thought about his physical identi-kit of the killer. Boyd matched it. Judd wished more than ever that he had left some word with Angeli.

Boyd’s voice was soft and cultured. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Dr. Stevens,” he said pleasantly. “I’m Bruce Boyd.” He held out his hand.

Judd reached out to take it and Boyd hit him in the mouth with a granite fist. The blow was totally unexpected, and the impact of it sent Judd crashing against a standing lamp, knocking it over as his body fell to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” said Boyd, looking down at him. “You had that coming. You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you? Get up and I’ll fix you a drink.”

Judd shook his head groggily. He started to push himself up from the floor. When he got halfway up, Boyd kicked him in the groin with the tip of his shoe and Judd fell writhing to the floor in agony. “I’ve been waiting for you to call,” Boyd said.

Judd looked up through the blinding waves of pain at the figure that towered over him. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t get the words out.

“Don’t try to talk,” Boyd said sympathetically. “It must hurt. I know why you’re here. You want to ask me about Johnny.”

Judd started to nod and Boyd kicked him in the head. Through a red blur he heard Boyd’s voice coming from some distant place through a cottony filter, fading in and out. “We loved each other until he went to you. You made him feel like a freak. You made him feel our love was dirty. Do you know who made it dirty, Dr. Stevens? You.”

Judd felt something hard smash into his ribs, sending an exquisite river of pain through his veins. He was seeing everything in beautiful colors now, as though his head were filled with shimmering rainbows.

“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.”