by Dean Koontz
When he drove like that, Mary could see the recklessness, the taste for excitement and violence that had gotten him into dozens of fights. Oddly, she wasn’t frightened by that aspect of him; instead, she found him more attractive than ever.
They rocketed toward Los Angeles at ninety miles an hour.
The eighteen-room English Tudor house in Bel Air looked cool and elegant in the shade of thirty-foot trees. The two-acre estate had cost her virtually every dollar that she had earned from her first two best-sellers, but she had never regretted the cost.
When they parked in the circular drive, Emmet Churchill came out to greet them. He had gray hair and a neat mustache. He was sixty years old, but his face was unlined. A life in service had been remarkably agreeable to both Emmet and his wife. “Good trip, Mr. Bergen?”
“Fine,” Max said. “Had it up to one-twenty for a few miles, and Mary didn’t scream once.”
“I would have,” Emmet said.
Mary had expected to find another Mercedes in the driveway. “Isn’t Alan home?”
“He stopped by for fresh clothes,” Emmet said. “But he was anxious to be off on vacation.”
She was disappointed. She’d hoped for another chance to convince him that he and Max could get along if they tried. “How’s Anna?” she asked Emmet.
“Couldn’t be better. When you called this morning to say that you’d be home, she started planning dinner right away. She’s in the kitchen now.”
“As soon as Max freshens up, he’ll be going to Beverly Hills to do some shopping,” Mary told Emmet. “You’ll want to get our luggage out of the Mercedes before he leaves.”
“Right away.”
She started toward the front door. “And would you get my car out of the garage? I’ve got a four-thirty appointment with Dr. Cauvel. I want—”
The man coming at her, relentless, power in the blow, a knife deep in her stomach, blade twisting, flesh tearing, blood erupting, pain erupting, blackness flowing, flowing ...
She regained consciousness as Max put her down on the bed in the second-floor master suite. She clung to him. She couldn’t stop shaking.
“Are you all right?”
“Hold me,” she said.
He did. “Easy. Easy now.”
She could feel the strong, unhurried beat of his heart. After a while she said, “I’m thirsty.”
“Is that all? Aren’t you hurt? Should I call a doctor?”
“Just get me some water.”
“You passed out.”
“I’m fine now.”
When he came back from the bathroom with the water, he helped her sit up. He held the glass, tilted it as she drank, nursed her as if she were a sick child. When she was finished, he said, “What happened?”
Leaning against the headboard, she said, “Another vision that I didn’t ask for. Only ... it’s different from anything that’s come before.”
She must have gone pale, for he said, “Calm down. It’s over.
He looked good. Marvelous. So big and reliable.
She did calm down somewhat, merely because he told her she should.
“I didn’t just see the damned thing, Max. I felt it. A knife. I felt a knife going into me, ripping me apart ... ”
She put one hand on her belly. There was no wound. No bruise. The flesh wasn’t even tender.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You saw yourself being stabbed to death?”
“No.”
“What did you see?”
She got up, waved him away as he moved to support her. She went to the window and looked out at the forty-foot pool behind the main house, at the lush grounds and at the Churchill’s little house at the far end of the property. Ordinarily she would have been calmed further by this evidence of prosperity; but now it had no effect on her. “I saw another woman. Not me. But I felt her pain as if it were mine.”
“That’s never happened before.”
“It did this time.”
“Have you ever heard of another clairvoyant having the same experience? Hurkos? Croiset? Dykshoorn?”
“No.” She turned from the window. “What’s it mean? What’s going to happen to me?”
“Nothing will happen to you.” Convinced that she wasn’t ill, he began the gentle interrogation that could guide her through a vision in progress or through the memory of a vision that had passed. “Has this thing you just saw happened yet?”
“No.”
“This woman who will be stabbed ... was she one of those you saw in the nightmare last evening?”
“No. A new one.”
“Did you see her face clearly?”
“I did. But only briefly.”
Mary sat in a wing-back chair by the window. Her hands, against the brown crushed-velvet upholstery, were pale, almost translucent. She felt lighter than air, as if her existence were tenuous, as if she were fading away.
“What did this woman look like?” Max asked.
“Pretty.”
He paced before her. “Color of hair?”
“Brunette.”
“Eyes?”
“Green or blue.”
“Young?”
“Yes. About my age.”
“Did you sense her name?”
“No. But I think I’ve seen her before.”
“You thought the same of one of them last night.”
She nodded.
“What gives you the idea you know her?”
“I can’t say. It’s just an impression.”
“Was the scene of this crime the same as in last night’s vision?”
“No. This woman will be murdered ... in a beauty parlor.”
“At a hairdresser’s?”
“Yes. The beautician is a man.”
“What will happen to him?”
“He’ll be killed, too.”
“Any other victims?”
“A third. Another woman.”
She had sensed a great deal in the few seconds that the psychic images had coruscated through her mind. However, with each datum came the brutal recollection of that knife she had shared mystically with the dying woman.
“What’s the name of the beauty shop?” Max asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s it located?”
“Not far from here.”
“In Orange County again?”
“Yes.”
“Which town?”
“I don’t know.”
He sighed, sat down in the armchair opposite hers. “Is the killer the same as the one you saw last night?”
“No doubt about it.”
“So he’s a repeater, a psychopath, a mass murderer. He’s going to kill four or five people in one place and three in another.”
“That may only be the start,” she said softly.
“What does he look like?”
“I still don’t know.”
“Is he a big man or small?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s his name?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Is he young or old?”
“I don’t even know that.”
The room was stuffy. The air was stale, almost rank. She got up and opened the window.
“If you can’t get an image of him,” Max said, “how can you tell it’s the same killer in both visions?”
“I just can, that’s all.”
She sat down, face to the window.
She felt hollow, light. She could imagine being carried off by the breeze, slight as it was. The unbidden visions had sucked a lot of energy from her. She wouldn’t be able to endure many more of them. Certainly not a life full of them.
Pretty soon, she thought, I won’t need a tornado like Dorothy did. just a puff of air will carry me off to Oz.
“What can we do to keep him from killing?” Max asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then let’s put him out of our minds for now.”
She scowled. “Know when
I feel worst? You know when I feel so awful I hardly want to live?”
He waited.
Her hands were in her lap, her fingers at war with one another. “It’s when I know something horrible will happen—but I don’t know enough to stop it from happening. If I must have this power, why wasn’t I given it without strings attached? Why can’t I turn it on and off like a television set? Why does it sometimes get all cloudy for me when I need it the most? Am I supposed to be tormented? Is it a nasty joke? A lot of people are going to die because I can’t see clearly. Dammit, dammit, dammit!” She jumped up, strode to the television. She turned the set on, off, on, off, on, off, with nearly enough force to break the switch.
“You can’t feel responsible for what you see in your visions,” he said.
“But I do.”
“You’ve got to change.”
“I won’t. I can’t.”
He stood up, went to her, took her hand from the television controls. “Why don’t you freshen up? We’ll do some shopping.”
“Not me,” she said. “I have an appointment with Dr. Cauvel.”
“That’s two and a half hours from now.”
“I’m not up to shopping,” she said. “You go. I’ll make the rounds tomorrow.”
“I can’t leave you here alone.”
“I won’t be alone. Anna and Emmet are here.”
“You shouldn’t drive.”
“Why not?”
“What if you have another attack while you’re behind the wheel?”
“Oh. Then Emmet can drive me.”
“What’ll you do until you see the analyst?”
“Write a column,” she said.
“We sent a packet to the syndicate last week. We’re already twenty columns ahead of schedule.”
Although she didn’t feel well, she managed a light tone. “We’re twenty ahead because you wrote fifteen of them. It’s time I did my share. Being twenty-one ahead won’t hurt.”
“There’s some material on my desk about that woman in North Carolina who can predict the sex of unborn babies just by touching the mother. They’re studying her at Duke University.”
“Then that’s what I’ll write about.”
“Well, if you’re positive...”
“I am. Now scoot over to Gucci, Giorgio’s, The French Corner, Juel Park, Courrèges, Van Cleef and Arpels—and buy me beautiful things for Christmas.”
Trying to keep from smiling, he said, “But I already have something picked out at Wool-worth’s.”
“Oh,” she said, playing along with him, “then you won’t mind that I’m only getting you a gift certificate for some McDonald’s hamburgers.”
He pretended to be disappointed. “Well, I might stop at Gucci and Edwards Lowell for a few things that’ll go with the Woolworth’s piece.”
She grinned. “You do that. Then maybe I’ll let you sleep in here tonight instead of on the couch.”
He laughed and kissed her.
“Mmmm,” she said. “Again.”
She knew that she was loved, and that knowledge compensated somewhat for the horror of the past few days.
8
THE FOCAL POINT of Dr. Cauvel’s office was a collection of hundreds of glass dogs that were displayed on glass and chrome shelves to one side of his desk. No member of the menagerie was larger than Mary’s hand, and most were a great deal smaller than that. There were blue dogs, brown dogs, red dogs, clear dogs, milky white dogs, black dogs, orange and yellow and purple and green dogs, transparent and opaque, striped and polka-dotted, hand-blown and solid glass dogs. Some of them were lying down, some sitting, standing, pointing, running. There were basset hounds, greyhounds, airedales, German shepherds, Pekingese, terriers, Saint Bernards, and a dozen other breeds. A bitch with a litter of fragile glass puppies stood near a comic scene of dogs playing tiny glass instruments, flutes and drums and bugles for beagles. Several curious figures shone darkly in the silent zoo: snarling hellhounds, demons with dog faces and forked tongues.
Glass was also the focal point of the doctor himself. He wore thick spectacles that made his eyes appear abnormally large. He was short, athletic looking, and compulsively neat about himself. The spectacles were never smudged; he polished them continually.
Mary and the doctor sat across from each other at a folding table in the middle of the room.
The psychiatrist shuffled a deck of playing cards. He dealt ten of them face-down in a single row.
She picked up a six-inch loop of wire that he had provided and held it over the cards. She moved it back and forth. Twice it dipped toward the table as if invisible fingers were tugging it out of her hands. After less than a minute of dowsing, she put down the loop and indicated two of the ten cards. “These are the highest values in the batch.”
“What are they?” Cauvel asked.
“One might be an ace.”
“Of which suit?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned them over. An ace of clubs. A queen of hearts.
She relaxed.
He revealed the other cards. The highest value was a jack.
“Incredible,” he said. “This is one of the most difficult tests we’ve tried. But out of ten attempts, you’ve been ninety percent accurate. Ever think of going to Las Vegas?”
“To break the bank at the twenty-one tables?”
“Why not?” he asked.
“The only way I’d have a chance is if they spread out the cards and let me use a wire loop on them before they dealt.”
Like all his movements and expressions, his smile was economical. “Not likely.”
For the past two years her Tuesday and Friday appointments had begun at four-thirty and ended at six o’clock. On these days she was Cauvel’s final patient. During the first three quarters of an hour she participated in some experiments in extra-sensory perception for a series of articles he intended to publish in a professional journal. He devoted the second forty-five minutes to treating her in his capacity as a psychiatrist. In return for her cooperation he waived his fee.
She could afford to pay for treatment. She permitted the current arrangement because the experiments interested her.
“Brandy?” he asked.
“Please.”
He poured Remy Martin for both of them.
They moved from the card table to a pair of armchairs that faced each other across a small round cocktail table.
Cauvel used no standard technique with his patients. His style was very much his own. She liked his quiet, friendly approach.
“Where would you like to begin?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Take your time.”
“I don’t want to begin at all.”
“You always say that, and you always begin.”
“Not today. I’d just like to sit here.”
He nodded, sipped his brandy.
“Why am I always so difficult for you?” she asked.
“I can’t answer that. You can.”
“Why don’t I want to talk to you?”
“Oh, you do want to talk. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
Frowning, she said, “Help me start.”
“What were you thinking about on your way here?”
“That’s no place to start.”
“Try it.”
“Well ... I was thinking about what I am.”
“And what’s that?”
“A clairvoyant.”
“What about it?”
“Why me? Why not someone else?”
“The top researchers in this field believe we all have the same paranormal talents.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But most people don’t have it to the extent that I do.”
“We just don’t recognize our potential,” he said. “Only a handful of people have found a way to use their ESP.”
“So why did I find a way?”
“Haven’t all of the best clairvoyants suffered head injuries at some time prior to
the discovery of their psychic powers?”
“Peter Hurkos did,” she said. “And a number of others. But not all of us.”
“Did you?”
“Suffer a head injury? No.”
“Yes, you did.”
She sipped her brandy. “What a wonderful taste.”
“You were injured when you were six years old. You’ve mentioned it a few times, but you’ve never wanted to pursue it.”
“And I don’t want to pursue it now.”
“You should,” Cauvel said. “Your reluctance to discuss it is proof that—”
“You’re talking too much today.” Her voice was hard, too loud. “I pay you to listen.”
“You don’t pay me at all.” As always, he spoke gently.
“I could walk out of here right now.”
He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.
“Without me,” she said sharply, disliking his studied calm, “you wouldn’t have the data to write those articles that make you a big man among the other shrinks.”
“The articles aren’t that important. If you want so much to walk out, do it. Shall we terminate our arrangement?”
She sagged back into her chair. “Sorry.” She seldom raised her voice. It wasn’t like her to shout at him. She was blushing.
“No need to apologize,” he said. “But don’t you see that this experience twenty-four years ago might be the root of your problem? It could be the underlying cause of your insomnia, of your periodic deep depressions, of your anxiety attacks.”
She felt weak. She closed her eyes. “You want me to pursue it.”
“That would be a good idea.”
“Help me start.”
“You were six years old.”
“Six...”
“Your father had money then.”
“Quite a lot of it.”
“You lived on a small estate.”
“Twenty acres,” she said. “Most of it landscaped. There was a full-time ... a full-time ...”
“Gardener.”
“Gardener,” she said. She wasn’t blushing anymore. Her cheeks were cold. Her hands were icy.
“What was his name?”
