The Vision (8 page)

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.

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?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Of course you do.”

“Berton Mitchell.”

“Did you like him?”

“At first I did.”

“You said once that he teased you.”

“In a fun way. And he had a special name for me.”

“What did he call you?”

“Contrary. As if that were my real name.”

“Were
you contrary?”

“Not the least bit. He was teasing. He got it from the nursery rhyme. ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary’ ...”

“When did you stop liking Berton Mitchell?”

She wanted to be home with Max. She could almost feel his arms around her.

“When did you stop liking him, Mary?”

“That day in August.”

“What happened?”

“You know.”

“Yes, I do know.”

“Well then.”

“But we never seem to get further into this thing unless we start from the top each time.”

“I don’t
want
to get further into it.”

But he was relentless. “What happened that day in August when you were six years old?”

“Have you gotten any new glass dogs recently?”

“What did Berton Mitchell do that day in August?”

“He tried to rape me.”

 
 
Six P.M. Early winter night. The air was cool and fresh.

He left the car at the coffee shop and walked north along the highway, his back to the traffic.

He had a knife in one pocket, a revolver in the other. He kept his hands on both weapons.

His shoes crunched in the gravel.

The wind from the passing cars buffeted him, mussed his hair, pasted his overcoat to his legs.

The beauty shop, Hair Today, occupied a small detached building on Main Street, just north of the Santa Ana city limits. With its imitation thatched roof, leaded windows, plaster and exposed-beam exterior, the place resembled a cottage in the English countryside—except for the floodlights shining on the front of it, and except for the pink and green paint job.

The block was strictly commercial. Service stations, fast-food restaurants, real estate offices, dozens of small businesses, all of them nestled in neon and palm trees and jade-plant hedges, flourished like ugly flowers in the money-scented Orange County air. South of Hair Today was the sales lot of an imported automobile dealership. Row after row of sleek machines huddled in the night. Only the windshields and chrome gleamed malevolently under mercury-vapor lights. North, beyond the beauty shop, lay a three-screen motion picture theater, and beyond that a shopping center.

A dirty white Cadillac and a shiny Triumph stood on the macadam parking area in front of Hair Today.

He crossed the lot, walked between the cars, opened the cottage door, and went inside.

The narrow front room was a lounge where women marked time until their appointments. The carpet was purple and plush, the chairs bright yellow, the drapes white. There were end tables, ashtrays, and stacks of magazines, but at this late hour there were no customers waiting.

At the rear of the room was a purple and white counter. A cash register rested on it, and a woman with bleached blond hair sat on a stool behind it.

In back of the woman a curtained archway led to the working part of the shop. The sound of a hand-held hair dryer penetrated the curtain like the buzz of angry bees.

“We’re closed,” the bleached blonde said.

He went to the counter.

“Are you looking for someone?” she said.

He took the revolver out of his pocket. It felt good in his hand. It felt like justice.