The Vision

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE EYES OF DARKNESS

“Koontz puts his readers through the emotional wringer!” -The Associated Press

 
THE KEY TO MIDNIGHT

“A master storyteller... always riveting.”

 
MR. MURDER

“A truly harrowing tale... superb work by a master at the top of his form.”

 
THE FUNHOUSE

“Koontz is a terrific what-if storyteller.”
-People

 
DRAGON TEARS

“A razor-sharp, nonstop, suspenseful story... a first-rate literary experience.”

 
SHADOWFIRES

“His prose mesmerizes... Koontz consistently hits the bull’s-eye.”
-Arkansas Democrat

HIDEAWAY

“Not just a thriller but a mediation on the nature of good and evil.”
-Lexington Herald-Leader

 
COLD FIRE

“An extraordinary piece of fiction.... It will be a classic.” -UP!

 
THE HOUSE OF THUNDER

“Koontz is brilliant.”
-Chicago Sun-Times

 
THE VOICE OF THE NIGHT

“A fearsome tour of an adolescent’s psyche. Terrifying, knee-knocking suspense.”

 
THE BAD PLACE

“A new experience in breathless terror.” -UPI

 
THE SERVANTS OF TWILIGHT

“A great storyteller.”
-New York Daily News

 
MIDNIGHT

“A triumph.”
-The New York Times

LIGHTNING

“Brilliant ... a spine-tingling tale ... both challenging and entertaining.” -The Associated Press

 
THE MASK

“Koontz hones his fearful yarns to a gleaming edge.”
-People

 
WATCHERS

“A breakthrough for Koontz... his best ever.”

-Kirkus
Reviews

 
 
TWILIGHT EYES

“A spine-chilling adventure... will keep you turning pages to the very end.”
-Rave Reviews

 
STRANGERS

“A unique spellbinder that captures the reader on the first page. Exciting, enjoyable, and an intensely satisfying read.” -Mary Higgins Clark

 
PHANTOMS

“First-rate suspense, scary and stylish.”

WHISPERS

“Pulls out all the stops... an incredible, terrifying tale.”
-Publishers
Weekly

 
NIGHT CHILLS

“Will send chills down your back.”

 
 
DARKFALL

“A fast-paced tale... one of the scariest chase scenes ever.”
-Houston Post

 
SHATTERED

“A chilling tale ... sleek as a bullet.”

 
THE VISION

“Spine-tingling—it gives you an almost lethal shock.”
-San Franciso Chronicle

 
THE FACE OF FEAR

“Real suspense ... tension upon tension.”

THE EYES OF DARKNESS
THE KEY TO MIDNIGHT
MR. MURDER
THE FUNHOUSE
DRAGON TEARS
SHADOWFIRES
HIDEAWAY
COLD FIRE
THE HOUSE OF THUNDER
THE VOICE OF THE NIGHT
THE BAD PLACE
THE SERVANTS OF TWILIGHT
MIDNIGHT
LIGHTNING
THE MASK
WATCHERS
TWILIGHT EYES
STRANGERS
DEMON SEED
PHANTOMS
WHISPERS
NIGHT CHILLS
DARKFALL
SHATTERED
THE VISION
THE FACE OF FEAR

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

 
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 
THE VISION

 
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with
G. P. Putnam’s Sons

 
PRINTING HISTORY 
G. P. Putnam’s Sons edition / November 1977
Berkley edition / March 1986

 
Copyright © 1977 by Dean Koontz.

 
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any
printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate
in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the
author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 
Visit our website at 
www.penguin.com

eISBN : 978-1-4406-2096-6

 
BERKLEY
^®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY and the “B” design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 
 

This book is for Claire M. Smith
 
with love and gratitude

“GLOVES OF BLOOD.”

The woman raised her hands and stared at them, stared
through
them.

Her voice was soft but tense. “Blood on his hands.” Her own hands were clean and pale.

Her husband leaned forward from the back seat of the patrol car. “Mary?”

She didn’t respond.

“Mary, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Whose blood do you see?”

“I’m not sure.”

“The victim’s blood?”

“No. In fact... it’s his own.”

“The killer’s?”

“Yes.”

“He has his own blood on his hands?”

“That’s right,” she said.

“He’s hurt himself?”

“But not badly.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try to get inside of him.”

“I am already.”

“Get deeper.”

“I’m not a mind reader.”

“I know that, darling. But you’re the next best thing.”

The perspiration on Mary Bergen’s face was like the ceramic glaze on the plaster countenance of an altar saint. Her smooth skin gleamed in the green light from the instrument panel. Her dark eyes also shone, but they were unfocused, blank.

Suddenly she leaned forward and shuddered.

In the driver’s seat Chief of Police Harley Barnes shifted uneasily. He flexed his big hands on the steering wheel.

“He’s sucking the wound,” she said. “Sucking his own blood.”

After thirty years of police work, Barnes didn’t expect to be surprised or frightened. Now, in a single evening, he had been surprised more than once and had felt his heartbeat accelerate with fear.

The tree-shrouded streets were as familiar to him as the contours of his own face. However, tonight, cloaked in a rainstorm, they seemed menacing. The tires hissed on the slick pavement. The windshield wipers thumped, an eerie metronome.

The woman beside Barnes was distraught, but her appearance was less disturbing than the changes she had wrought inside the patrol car. The humid air became clearer when she entered her trance. He was certain he was not imagining that. The ordinary sounds of the storm and the car were overlaid with the soft humming of ghost frequencies. He sensed an indescribable power radiating from her. He was a practical man, not at all superstitious. But he could not deny what he felt so strongly.

She bent as far toward the dashboard as her seat belt would allow. She hugged herself and groaned as if she were having labor pains.

Max Bergen reached out from the rear seat, touched her.

She murmured and relaxed slightly.

His hand looked enormous on her slender shoulder. He was tall, angular, hard-muscled, hard-faced, forty years old, ten years older than his wife. His eyes were his most arresting feature
_;
they were gray, cold, humorless.

Chief Barnes had never seen him smile. Clearly, Bergen harbored powerful and complex feelings for Mary, but he gave no indication that he felt anything but contempt for the rest of the world.

The woman said, “Turn at the next corner.”

Barnes braked gently. “Left or right?”

“Right,” she said.

Well-kept, thirty-year-old stucco houses and bungalows, most of them California-Spanish in style, lay on both sides of the street. Yellow lights glowed vaguely behind drapes that had been drawn against the chill of the damp December night. The road was much darker than the one they had left. Sodium vapor lamps stood only at the corners, and purple-black, rain-pooled shadows filled the long blocks between them.

After he made the turn, Barnes drove no faster than ten miles an hour. From the woman’s attitude, he gathered that the chase would end nearby.

Mary sat up straight. Her voice was louder and clearer than it had been since she began to use her strange talent, her clairvoyance. “I get an impression ... of a ... a fence. Yes... I see it now... he’s cut his hand... on a fence.”

Max stroked her hair. “And it’s not a serious wound?”

“No... just a cut... his thumb... deep... but not disabling.” She raised one thin hand, forgot what she meant to do with it, let it flutter back into her lap.

“But if he’s bleeding from a deep cut, won’t he give up tonight?” Max asked.

“No,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

“He’ll go on.”

“The bastard’s killed five women so far,” Barnes said. “Some of them fought like hell, scratched him and cut him and even tore out his hair. He doesn’t give up easily.”

Ignoring the policeman, Max soothed his wife, caressed her face with one hand and prompted her with another question. “What kind of fence do you see?”

“Chain-link,” she said. “Sharp and unfinished at the top.”

“Is it high?”

“Five feet.”

“What does it surround?”

“A yard.”

“Storage yard?”

“No. Behind a house.”

“Can you see the house?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s a two-story.”

“Stucco?”

“Yes.”

“What about the roof?”

“Spanish tile.”

“Any unique features?”

“I can’t quite see ... ”

“A veranda?”

“No.”

“A courtyard maybe?”

“No. But I see... a winding tile walkway.”

“Front or back?”

“Out front of the house.”

“Any trees?”

“Matched magnolias... on either side of the walk.”