Sidney Sheldon - The Naked Face

“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.”

“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.

Judd took a step toward the manager’s office. “I have to see Mr. Katz about—”

The larger man blocked his way. “Mr. Katz is busy, Doc,” he said softly.

The man in the elevator spoke. “I’ll take you upstairs.”

“No,” Judd said. “I—”

“Do like he says.” There was no emotion in his voice.

There was a sudden blast of cold air as the lobby door opened. Two men and two women hurried in, laughing and chattering, huddled in their coats.

“It’s worse than Siberia,” said one of the women.

The man holding her arm was pudgy-faced, with a Mid-western accent. “Tain’t a fit night out for man nor beast.”

The group was moving toward the elevator. The doorman and elevator operator looked at each other silently.

The second woman spoke. She was a tiny, platinum blonde with a heavy Southern accent. “It’s been a perfectly dreamy evening. Thank you all so much.” She was sending the men away.

The second man gave a howl of protest. “You’re not going to let us go without a little nightcap, are you?”

“It’s awfully late, George,” simpered the first woman.

“But it’s below zero outside. You’ve gotta give us a little anti-freeze.”

The other man added his plea. “Just one drink and then we go.”

“Well…”

Judd was holding his breath. Please!

The platinum blonde relented. “All right. But just one, you-all hear?”

Laughing, the group stepped into the elevator. Judd quickly moved in with them. The doorman stood there uncertainly, looking at his brother. The one in the elevator shrugged, closed the door, and started the elevator up. Judd’s apartment was on the fifth floor. If the group got out before him, he was in trouble. If they got out after him, he had a chance to get into his apartment, barricade himself, and call for help.

“Floor?”

The little blonde giggled. “I don’t know what my husband would say if he saw me inviting two strange men up to my apartment.” She turned to the elevator operator. “Ten.”

Judd exhaled and realized that he had been holding his breath. He spoke quickly. “Five.”

The elevator operator gave him a patient, knowing look and opened the door at Five. Judd got out. The elevator door closed.

Judd moved toward his apartment, stumbling with pain. He took out his key, opened the door, and went in, his heart pounding. He had five minutes at the most before they came to kill him. He closed the door and started to put the chain lock in the bolt. It came off in his hand. He looked at it and saw that it had been cut through. He flung it down and moved toward the phone. A wave of dizziness swept over him. He stood there, fighting the pain, his eyes closed, while precious time passed. With an effort, he started toward the phone again, moving slowly. The only person he could think of to call was Angeli, but Angeli was at home, ill. Besides—what could he say? We have a new doorman and elevator operator and I think they’re going to kill me? He slowly became aware that he was holding the receiver in his hand, standing there numbly, too dazed to do anything. Concussion, he thought. Boyd may have killed me, after all. They would walk in and find him like this—helpless. He remembered the look in the eyes of the big man. He had to outwit them, keep them off balance. But good God—how?