The Vision by Dean Koontz

substantial knife?”
    “A spirit has no substance, but it does have
power
,” she said emphatically. “Two months ago, when you helped me cover that story in Connecticut, you saw a poltergeist in action.”
    “What of it?”
    “Well, a poltergeist has no apparent substance, yet it tosses around solid objects, doesn’t it?”
    Reluctantly he said, “Yes. But I don’t believe a poltergeist is the spirit of a dead person.”
    “What else could it be?” Before he responded she said, “Lingard’s spirit carried away the butcher knife. I
know
it.”
    He drank his coffee in three long swallows. “Suppose that’s true. Where’s his spirit now?”
    “In possession of someone living.”
    “What?”
    “As soon as Lingard’s body died, his spirit slipped out of it and into someone else.”
    Max got up, walked to the bookshelves. He looked at Mary with eyes that studied, weighed, and judged. “In every session with Cauvel, you’ve come closer to remembering what Berton Mitchell did to you.”
    “So you think that because I’m on the verge of knowing, I might be seeking escape from the truth, escape in madness.”
    “
Can
you face up to what he did?”
    “I’ve lived with it for years, even if I have suppressed it.”
    “Living with it and accepting it are two different things.”
    “If you think I’m a candidate for a padded room, you don’t know me,” she said, irritated in spite of the Valium.
    “I don’t think that. But demonic possession?”
    “Not demonic. I’m talking about something less grand than that. This is the possession of a living person by the spirit of someone dead.”
    His square, almost ugly face was creased with worry. He spread his arms, his hands, palms up, a supplicant bear. “And who is this living person?”
    “The man who killed those nurses in Anaheim. He’s possessed by Lingard, and that’s why the psychic emanations he puts out are so different.”
    Max returned to the sofa. “I can’t accept it.”
    “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
    “The poltergeist phenomena in Cauvel’s office . . . You think—”
    “That was Lingard,” she said.
    “There’s a problem with that theory,” he said.
    She raised her eyebrows.
    “How could Lingard’s spirit be in two places at once?” he asked. “How could Lingard be in possession of a man who he’s forcing to commit murder—and at the same time be throwing glass dogs around Cauvel’s office?”
    “I don’t know. Who’s to say what a ghost can do?”
    * * *
    At ten o’clock, Max came to the master bedroom. He had gone downstairs to the library for a novel and had returned carrying a thick volume—not the book he’d been after. “I talked to Dr. Cauvel just now,” he said.
    Mary was sitting up in bed. She used a flap of the dust jacket to mark her place in the book she was reading. “What did the good doctor have to say?”
    “He thinks
you
are the poltergeist.”
    “Me?”
    “He says you were under stress—”
    “Aren’t we all?”
    “Especially you.”
    “Was I?”
    “Because you remembered about Berton Mitchell.”
    “I’ve remembered about him before.”
    “This time you recalled more than ever. Cauvel says you were under great psychological stress in his office, and that
you
caused the glass dogs to fly about.”
    She smiled. “A man your size looks just too cute in pajamas.”
    “Mary—”
    “Especially yellow pajamas. You should wear just a robe.”
    “You’re avoiding this.” He came to the foot of the bed. “What about the glass dogs?”
    “Cauvel just wants me to pay for them,” she said airily.
    “He didn’t mention money.”
    “That’s what he was angling for.”
    “He’s not the type,” Max said.
    “I’ll pay half the value of the dogs.”
    Exasperated, Max said, “Mary, that’s not necessary.”
    “I know,” she said lightly. “I didn’t break them.”
    “I mean, Cauvel isn’t asking to be paid. You’re trying to avoid the main issue.”
    “Okay,