Sidney Sheldon - The Naked Face

He turned on the small TV set that monitored the lobby. The lobby was deserted. The pain returned, washing over him in waves, making him feel faint. He forced his tired mind to focus on the problem. He was in an emergency… Yes…Emergency. He had to take emergency measures. Yes…His vision was blurring again. His eyes focused on the phone. Emergency…He moved the dial close to his eyes so that he could read the numbers. Slowly, painfully, he dialed. A voice answered on the fifth ring. Judd spoke, his words slurred and indistinct. His eye was caught by a flurry of motion on the TV monitor. The two men, in street clothes, were crossing the lobby and moving toward the elevator.

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.

“Well,” Dr. Harris said cheerfully, “you’re turning out to be one of our best customers. Do you know how much your stitching bill alone is? We’re going to have to give you discount rates… How did you sleep, Judd?” He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Like a baby. What did you give me?”

“A shot of sodium luminol.”

“What time is it?”

“Noon. ”

“My God,” Judd said. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

Dr. Harris removed the chart from the clipboard he carried. “What would you like to talk about first? Your concussion? Lacerations? Contusions?”

“I feel fine.”

The doctor put the chart aside. His voice grew serious. “Judd, your body’s taken a lot of punishment. More than you realize. If you’re smart, you’ll stay right in this bed for a few days and rest. Then you’ll take a vacation for a month.”

“Thanks, Seymour,” Judd said.

“You mean thanks, but—no, thanks.”

“There’s something I have to take care of.”

Dr. Harris sighed. “Do you know who make the worst patients in the world? Doctors.” He changed the subject, conceding defeat. “Peter was here all night. He’s been calling every hour. He’s worried about you. He thinks someone tried to kill you last night.”

“You know how doctors are—overimaginative.”

Harris eyed him a moment, shrugged, then said, “You’re the analyst. I’m only Ben Casey. Maybe you know what you’re doing—but I wouldn’t bet a nickel on it. Are you sure you won’t stay in bed a few days?”

“I can’t.”

“OK, Tiger. I’ll let you leave tomorrow.”

Judd started to protest, but Dr. Harris cut him off.

“Don’t argue. Today’s Sunday. The guys who beat you up need a rest.”

“Seymour…”

“Another thing. I hate to sound like a Jewish mother, but have you been eating lately?”

“Not much,” Judd said.

“OK. I’m giving Miss Bedpan twenty-four hours to fatten you up. And Judd…”

“Yes?”

“Be careful. I hate to lose such a good customer.” And Dr. Harris was gone.

Judd closed his eyes to rest a moment. He heard the rattle of dishes, and when he looked up, a beautiful Irish nurse was wheeling in a dining tray.

“You’re awake, Dr. Stevens.” She smiled.

“What time is it?”

“Six o’clock.”

He had slept the day away.

She was placing the food on his bed tray. “You’re having a treat tonight—turkey. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

“I know.” He had no appetite for dinner until he took the first bite and suddenly discovered that he was ravenous. Dr. Harris had shut off all phone calls, so he lay in bed, undisturbed, gathering his strength, marshaling the forces within him. Tomorrow he would need all the energy he could muster.

At ten o’clock the next morning Dr. Seymour Harris bustled into Judd’s room. “How’s my favorite patient?” He beamed. “You look almost human.”