Programmed for Peril

wore his work. Actors, too, when they needed to look convincingly grotesque.”
    Sarkman said, “He made a mask for Carson. To hide his face. That’s why we can’t find him.”
    “That’s what I thought at first, Pete.” Jerry nodded at Sarkman, his long face angled with intensity. A good cop on the scent. “But I have another idea.”
    “I think I know what it is!” Trish interrupted. “Not two hours ago I was trying to get a grip on what I bet is the same idea. Carson had surgery that changed his face. The mask he wears looks like his old face! The two times I saw him he wore it so I wouldn’t know what his altered face looks like.’ Jerry nodded. “Exactly!”
    Sarkman scowled. “Hold on, hold on.” He got up and walked to the window and looked out. “You people forget we had a witness who saw the killer leaving the second doctor’s house. He didn’t look like Carson.” He dug in his briefcase. “You see this composite, Jerry?”
    Jerry nodded. To Trish he said, “They faxed it to us. The witness worked with a coast cop artist. The witness isn’t sure she likes it.”
    Sarkman gave the sheet to Trish. She studied it. Hair! Goodness, flowing beard and mustache, very curly locks. Real? Who knew? Peeping out were the artist’s concept’s features. Didn’t look like anyone she knew. Or did it?
    Sarkman gestured at the composite. “That doesn’t look like the guy in that photo you gave us, Trish.”
    “It’s a... somewhat different face. Yes.” She found Sarkman’s brusque, know-it-all tone annoying. It sounded as though somehow everything was her fault. She had reason to dislike the man.
    “So how many masks does Carson Thomas have?” Sarkman said.
    “Maybe it wasn’t Carson who killed the doctors,” Jerry said.
    “Then who did it? And why?” Sarkman pointed at the composite. “Who is this guy—if he’s not Carson?”
    Trish studied the drawing again. For an instant she thought the face, shrouded though it was, was Carson’s. Final recognition squirmed away like an eel. No, she didn’t know who it was.
    Sarkman put the sheet back in his briefcase. He asked Trish to sit down. He pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat backward in it, facing her. “I think the time’s come to ask you some questions. We got too many murders all of a sudden to keep pussyfooting around. We got Jethro DuMont—used to work with Carson. Three doctors, three little girls, one muscleman, one mask maker, one guy who stopped to help out Mr. Palmer. That’s ten people! Then this Carson single-handedly about breaks and ruins Mr. Palmer.” He tipped the chair, leaning closer to Trish. His thin lips were tight. His eyes narrowed. “What the hell is between you and Carson Thomas?”
    Trish stared numbly at him. “I’ve talked about that. To you and to Jerry. The man is obsessed with me. It took the shape of his not wanting me to marry Foster.” She drew a deep breath. “Now that he’s gotten his way with that, we’ll have to see where he goes next.” Her voice caught, and she closed her eyes.
    “Trish!” Jerry’s voice. He knew her dream had crumbled. “It can’t be that simple,” Sarkman went on. “Some way you’re feeding each other. You’re both playing some kind of sicko mind game.”
    “Pete, come on!” Jerry said.
    “You come on. You and Ms. Victim here. If all this is so bad for you, Trish, why don’t you pick up and leave? Why do you hang around and let people be killed because of you? Why don’t you hide somewhere?”
    “I already did that once.” Trish struggled to keep her voice even. “He found me. Now I have a business, a child in school, and a mother to help me with her. I’m not running again!”
    “Something stinks between you two.”
    “What stinks is you police!” Trish shouted. “You haven’t been a bit of good to me. I’m frightened to death, and you haven’t done a damn thing to help me. It’s taken a murder in your own backyard to get you to really talk to me, Sarkman.” She knew she was going to cry. She couldn’t help it. And didn’t care.
    “You’ve talked to Jerry plenty.” Sarkman’s terrier face twisted with contempt. “You’ve got him in your pocket.”
    “Pete!” Jerry jumped up. “What’s with you? This woman is a victim. She’s not Carson Thomas’s ally.”
    Sarkman got up and moved his chair back. “She’s a type, Jerry. She leads everybody on.” He jabbed a finger at her. “How many other guys you got on the string,