“What?”

  “You put your finger on it before, when you said there were two men. Maybe one man might have a burning itch to knock you off—but why two?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Moody studied him a moment, speculatively. “By God!” he finally said.

  “What is it?”

  “I just might have a brainstorm. If I’m right, there could be more than two men out to kill you.”

  Judd stared at him incredulously. “You mean there’s a whole group of maniacs after me? That doesn’t make sense.”

  There was a look of growing excitement on Moody’s face. “Doctor, I’ve got an idea who the umpire in this ballgame might be.” He looked at Judd, his eyes bright. “I don’t know how yet, or why—but it could be I know who.”

  “Who?”

  Moody shook his head. “You’d have me sent to a cracker factory if I told you. I always say if you’re gonna shoot off your mouth, make sure it’s loaded first. Let me do a little target practice. If I’m on the right track, I’ll tell you.”

  “I hope you are,” Judd said earnestly.

  Moody looked at him a moment. “No, Doc. If you value your life worth a damn—pray I’m wrong.”

  And Moody was gone.

  He took a taxi to the office.

  It was Friday noon, and with only three more shopping days until Christmas, the streets were crowded with late shoppers, bundled up against the raw wind sweeping in from the Hudson River. The store windows were festive and bright, filled with lighted Christmas trees and carved figures of the Nativity. Peace on Earth. Christmas. And Elizabeth, and their unborn baby. One day soon—if he survived—he would have to make his own peace, free himself from the dead past and let go. He knew that with Anne he could have…He firmly stopped himself. What was the point in fantasizing about a married woman about to go away with her husband, whom she loved?

  The taxi pulled up in front of his office building and Judd got out, nervously looking around. But what could he look for? He had no idea what the murder weapon would be, or who would wield it.

  When he reached his office, he locked the outer door, went to the paneling that concealed the tapes, and opened it. The tapes were filed chronologically, under the name of each patient. He selected the most recent ones and carried them over to the tape recorder. With all his appointments canceled for the day, he would be able to concentrate on trying to find some clue that might involve the friends or families of his patients. He felt that Moody’s suggestion was farfetched, but he had too much respect for him to ignore it.

  As he put on the first tape, he remembered the last time he had used the machine. Was it only last night? The memory filled him again with the sharp sense of nightmare. Someone had planned to murder him here in this room, where they had murdered Carol.

  He suddenly realized that he had given no thought to his patients at the free hospital clinic where he worked one morning a week. It was probably because the murders had revolved around this office rather than the hospital. Still…He walked over to a section of the cabinets labeled “CLINIC,” looked through some of the tapes, and finally selected half a dozen. He put the first one on the tape recorder.

  Rose Graham.

  “…an accident, Doctor. Nancy cries a lot. She’s always been a whiny baby, so when I hit her, it’s for her own good, y’know?”

  “Did you ever try to find out why Nancy cries a lot?” Judd’s voice asked.

  “‘Cause she’s spoiled. Her daddy spoiled her rotten and then run off and left us. Nancy always thought she was daddy’s girl, but how much could Harry really have loved her if he run off like that?”

  “You and Harry were never married, were you?”

  “Well…Common law, I guess you’d call it. We was goin’ to get married.”

  “How long did you live together?”

  “Four years.”

  “How long was it after Harry left you that you broke Nancy’s arm?”

  “‘Bout a week, I guess. I didn’t mean to break it. It’s just that she wouldn’t stop whining, so I finally picked up this curtain rod an’ started beating on her.”

  “Do you think Harry loved Nancy more than he loved you?”

  “No. Harry was crazy about me.”

  “Then why do you think he left you?”

  “Because he was a man. An’ y’know what men are? Animals! All of you! You should all be slaughtered like pigs!” Sobbing.

  Judd switched off the tape and thought about Rose Graham. She was a psychotic misanthrope, and she had nearly beaten her six-year-old child to death on two separate occasions. But the pattern of the murders did not fit Rose Graham’s psychosis.

  He put on the next tape from the clinic.

  Alexander Fallon.

  “The police say that you attacked Mr. Champion with a knife, Mr. Fallon.”

  “I only did what I was told.”

  “Someone told you to kill Mr. Champion?”

  “He told me to do it.”

  “He?”

  “God.”

  “Why did God tell you to kill him?”

  “Because Champion’s an evil man. He’s an actor. I saw him on the stage. He kissed this woman. This actress. In front of the whole audience. He kissed her and…”

  Silence.

  “Go on.”

  “He touched her—her titty.”

  “Did that upset you?”

  “Of course! It upset me terribly. Don’t you understand what that meant? He had carnal knowledge of her. When I came out of that theater, I felt like I had just come from Sodom and Gomorrah. They had to be punished.”

  “So you decided to kill him.”

  “I didn’t decide it. God decided. I just carried out His orders.”

  “Does God often talk to you?”

  “Only when there’s His work to be done. He’s chosen me as His instrument, because I’m pure. Do you know what makes me pure? Do you know what the most cleansing thing in the world is? Slaying the wicked!”

  Alexander Fallon. Thirty-five, a part-time baker’s assistant. He had been sent to a mental home for six months and then released. Could God have told him to destroy Hanson, a homosexual, and Carol, a former prostitute, and Judd, their benefactor? Judd decided that it was unlikely. Fallon’s thought processes took place in brief, painful spasms. Whoever had planned the murders was highly organized.

  He played several more of the tapes from the clinic, but none of them fit into the pattern he was searching for. No. It wasn’t any patient at the clinic.

  He looked over the office files again and a name caught his eye.

  Skeet Gibson.

  He put on the tape.

  “‘Mornin’, Dockie. How do you like this bee-u-ti-ful day I cooked up for you?”

  “You’re feeling good today.”

  “If I was feelin’ any better, they’d have me locked up. Did you catch my show last night?”

  “No. I’m sorry, I wasn’t able to.”

  “I was only a smash. Jack Gould called me ‘the most lovable comedian in the world.’ An’ who am I to argue with a genius like Jack Gould? You shoulda heard that audience! They were applauding like it was going out of style. Do ya know what that proves?”

  “That they can read ‘Applause’ cards?”

  “You’re sharp, you devil, you. That’s what I like—a headshrinker with a sense of humor. The last one I had was a drag. Had a great big beard that really bugged me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was a lady!”

  Loud laughter.

  “Gotcha that time, didn’t I, old cock? Seriously, folks, one of the reasons I’m feelin’ so good is because I just pledged a million dollars—count ’em: one million bucks—to help the kids in Biafra.”

  “No wonder you feel good.”

  “You bet your sweet ass. That story hit the front pages all over the world.”

  “Is that important?”

  “What do you mean, ‘Is that important?’ How many guys pledge that kind of loot? You’ve gotta blow your own horn, Peter Pan. I’m glad I can afford to pledge the money.”

  “You keep saying ‘pledge.’ Do you mean ‘give?’ “

  “Pledge—give—what’s the difference? You pledge a million—give a few grand—an’ they kiss your ass… Did I tell you it’s my anniversary today?”

  “No. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. Fifteen great years. You never met Sally. There’s the sweetest broad that ever walked God’s earth. I really got lucky with my marriage. You know what a pain in the keester in-laws can be? Well, Sally’s got these two brothers, Ben an’ Charley. I told you about them. Ben’s head writer on my TV show an’ Charley’s my producer. They’re geniuses. I’ve been on the air seven years now. An’ we’re never outta the top ten in the Nielsen’s. I was smart to marry into a family like that, huh? Most women get fat an’ sloppy once they’ve hooked their husband. But Sally, bless her, is slimmer now than the day we were married. What a dame!…Got a cigarette?”

  “Here. I thought you quit smoking.”

  “I just wanted to show myself I had the old willpower, so I quit. Now I’m smoking because I want to… I made a new deal with the network yesterday. I really shafted ’em. Is my time up yet?”

  “No. Are you restless, Skeet?”

  “To tell you the truth, sweetie, I’m in such great shape I don’t know what the hell I’m coming in here any more for.”

  “No more problems?”

  “Me? The world’s my oyster an’ I’m Diamond Jim Brady. I’ve gotta hand it to you. You’ve really helped me. You’re my man. With the kind of money you make, maybe I should go into business and set up my own shingle, huh?…That reminds me of the great story of the guy who goes to a wig-picker, but he’s so nervous he just lays on the couch and doesn’t say anything. At the end of the hour, the shrink says, ‘That’ll be fifty dollars.’ Well, that goes on for two whole years without the schmuck saying one word. Finally the little guy opens his mouth one day and says, ‘Doctor—could I ask you a question?’ ‘Sure,’ says the Doc. And the little guy says, ‘Would you like a partner?’ “

  Loud laughter.

  “You got a shot of aspirin or somethin’?”

  “Certainly. Is it one of your bad headaches?”

  “Nothin’ I can’t handle, old buddy… Thanks. That’ll do the trick.”

  “What do you think brings these headaches on?”

  “Just normal show-biz tension… We have our script reading this afternoon.”

  “Does that make you nervous?”

  “Me? Hell, no! What have I got to be nervous about? If the jokes are lousy, I make a face, wink at the audience, an’ they eat it up. No matter how bad the show is, little old Skeet comes out smelling like a rose.”

  “Why do you think you have these headaches every week?”

  “How the fuck do I know? You’re supposed to be a doctor. You tell me. I don’t pay you to sit on your fat ass for an hour asking stupid questions. Jesus Christ, if an idiot like you can’t cure a simple headache, they shouldn’t let you be running around loose, messing up people’s lives. Where’d you get your medical certificate? From a veterinarian school? I wouldn’t trust my fuckin’ cats with you. You’re a goddam quack! The only reason I came to you in the first place was because Sally shitted me into it. It was the only way I could get her off my back. Do ya know my definition of Hell? Bein’ married to an ugly, skinny nag for fifteen years. If you’re lookin’ for some more suckers to cheat, take on her two idiot brothers, Ben an’ Charley. Ben, my head writer, doesn’t know which end of the pencil has the lead in it, an’ his brother’s even stupider. I wish they’d all drop dead. They’re out to get me. You think I like you? You stink! You’re so goddam smug, sitting there looking down on everybody. You haven’t got any problems, have you? Do you know why? Because you’re not for real. You’re out of it. All you do is sit on your fat keester all day long an’ steal money from sick people. Well, I’m gonna get you, you sonofabitch. I’m gonna report you to the AMA…”

  Sobbing.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go to that goddam reading.”

  Silence.

  “Well—keep your pecker up. See ya next week, sweetie.”

  Judd switched off the recorder. Skeet Gibson, America’s most beloved comedian, should have been institutionalized ten years ago. His hobbies were beating up young, blond showgirls and getting into barroom brawls. Skeet was a small man, but he had started out as a prizefighter, and he knew how to hurt. One of his favorite sports was going into a gay bar, coaxing an unsuspecting homosexual into the men’s room, and beating him unconscious. Skeet had been picked up by the police several times, but the incidents had always been hushed up. After all, he was America’s most lovable comic. Skeet was paranoid enough to want to kill, and he was capable of killing in a fit of rage. But Judd did not think he was cold-blooded enough to carry out this kind of planned vendetta. And in that, Judd felt certain, lay the key to the solution. Whoever was trying to murder him was doing it not in the heat of any passion, but methodically and cold-bloodedly. A madman.

  Who was not mad.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE PHONE RANG. It was his answering service. They had been able to reach all his patients except Anne Blake. Judd thanked the operator and hung up.

  So Anne was coming here today. He was disturbed at how unreasonably happy he was at the thought of seeing her. He must remember that she was only coming by because he had asked her to, as her doctor. He sat there thinking about Anne. How much he knew about her…and how little.

  He put Anne’s tape on the tape recorder and listened to it. It was one of her first visits.

  “Comfortable, Mrs. Blake?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Relaxed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re clenching your fists.”

  “Perhaps I am a little tense.”

  “About what?”

  A long silence.

  “Tell me about your home life. You’ve been married six months.”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m married to a wonderful man. We live in a beautiful house.”

  “What kind of house is it?”

  “Country French…It’s a lovely old place. There’s a long, winding driveway leading to it. High up on the roof there’s a funny old bronze rooster with its tail missing. I think some hunter shot it off a long time ago. We have about five acres, mostly wooded. I go for long walks. It’s like living in the country.”

  “Do you like the country?”

  “Very much.”

  “Does your husband?”

  “I think so.”

  “A man doesn’t usually buy five acres in the country un less he loves it.”

  “He loves me. He would have bought it for me. He’s very generous.”

  “Let’s talk about him.”

  Silence.

  “Is he good-looking?”

  “Anthony’s very handsome.”

  Judd felt a pang of unreasonable, unprofessional jealousy.

  “You’re compatible physically?” It was like a tongue probing at a sore tooth.

  “Yes.”

  He knew what she would be like in bed: exciting and feminine and giving. Christ, he thought, get off the subject.

  “Do you want children?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Does your husband?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  A long silence except for the silky rustling of the tape. Then:

  “Mrs. Blake, you came to me because you said you had a desperate problem. It concerns your husband, doesn’t it?”

  Silence.

  “Well, I’m assuming it does. From what you told me earlier, you love each other, you’re both faithful, you both want children, you live in a beautiful home, your husband is successful, handsome, and he spoils you. And you’ve only been married six months. I’m afraid it’s a little like the old joke: ‘What’s my problem, Doctor?’”

  There was silence again except for the impersonal whir ring of the tape. Finally she spoke. “It’s…it’s difficult for me to talk about. I thought I could discuss it with a stranger, but”—he remembered vividly how she had twisted around on the couch to look up at him with those large, enigmatic eyes—”it’s harder. You see”—she was speaking more rapidly now, trying to overcome the barriers that had kept her silent—” I overheard something and I—I could easily have jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

  “Something to do with your husband’s personal life? Some woman?”

  “No.”

  “His business?”

  “Yes…”

  “You thought he lied about something? Tried to get the better of someone in a deal?”

  “Something like that.”

  Judd was on surer ground now. “And it upset your confi dence in him. It showed you a side of him that you had never seen before.”

  “I—I can’t discuss it. I feel disloyal to him even being here. Please don’t ask me anything more today, Dr. Stevens.”

  And that had ended that session. Judd switched off the tape.

  So Anne’s husband had pulled a sharp business deal. He could have cheated on his taxes. Or forced someone into bankruptcy. Anne, naturally, would be upset. She was a sen sitive woman. Her faith in her husband would be shaken.

  He thought about Anne’s husband as a possible suspect. He was in the construction business. Judd had never met him, but whatever business problem he was involved in could not, by any stretch of the imagination, have included John Hanson, Carol Roberts, or Judd.

  What about Anne herself? Could she be a psychopath? A homicidal maniac? Judd leaned back in his chair and tried to think about her objectively.

  He knew nothing about her except what she had told him. Her background could have been fictitious, she could have made it all up, but what would she have to gain? If this was some elaborate charade as a cover to murder, there had to be a motivation. The memory of her face and her voice flooded his mind, and he knew that she could have nothing to do with any of this. He would stake his life on it. The irony of the phrase made him grin.