okay. So
how
did I cause glass dogs to fly about?”
“Unconsciously. Cauvel says—”
“Psychiatrists always blame the unconscious.”
“Who’s to say they’re wrong?”
“They’re stupid.”
“Mary—”
“And you’re stupid for believing Cauvel.”
She didn’t want to argue, but she couldn’t control herself. She was frightened by the direction the conversation was taking, although she didn’t know why she should be. She was terrified of some knowledge that lay within her, but she couldn’t understand what that might be.
Standing like a preacher, holding his book as if it were a Bible, Max said, “Will you listen?”
She shook her head to indicate she found him too irritating to bear. “If I’m responsible for his figurines getting busted up, am I also to blame for the bad weather in the East, for the war in Africa, for inflation, for poverty, for the recent crop failures?”
“Sarcasm.”
“You encourage it.”
The tranquilizer was doing her no good whatsoever. She was tense. Trembling. Like a shallow-water, feathery sea anemone quivering in the subtle currents that preceded a storm, she was nervously aware of unseen forces that could destroy her.
Suddenly she felt threatened by Max.
That doesn’t make sense, she thought. Max isn’t any danger to me. He’s trying to help me find the truth, that’s all.
Dizzy, confused, on the verge of anomie, she leaned back against her pillows.
Max opened his book and read in a quiet but urgent voice: “‘
Telekinesis
is the ability to move objects or to cause changes within objects solely by the force of the mind. The phenomenon has most often and most reliably been reported in times of crises or in severe stress situations. For example, automobiles have been levitated from injured people, debris from the dying in fire-swept or collapsed buildings.’”
“I
know
what telekinesis is,” she said.
Max ignored her, kept reading: “‘Telekinesis is often mistaken for the work of poltergeists, which are playful and occasionally malevolent spirits. The existence of poltergeists as astral beings is debatable and certainly unproven. It should be noted that in most houses where poltergeists have appeared, there resides an adolescent with serious identity problems,
or some other person under severe nervous strain
. A good argument could be made that the phenomena often attributed to poltergeists are usually the product of unconscious telekinesis.’”
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “Why would I pitch those dogs around just when I was about to see the killer’s face in the vision?”
“You really didn’t want to see his face, so your subconscious threw those figurines to distract you from the vision.”
“That’s absurd! I
wanted
to see it. I want to stop this man before he kills again.”
Max’s hard gray eyes were like knives, dissecting her. “Are you sure you want to stop him?”
“What kind of question is that?”
He sighed. “Do you know what I think? I think you’ve sensed, through your clairvoyance, that this psychopath will kill you if you pursue him. You’ve seen a possible future, and you’re trying like hell to avoid it.”
Surprised, she said, “Nothing of the sort.”
“The pain you felt—”
“Was the pain of the victims. It wasn’t a foreshadowing of my own death.”
“Maybe you haven’t foreseen the danger consciously,” Max said. “But subconsciously, perhaps, you’ve seen yourself as a victim if you pursue this case. That would explain why you’re trying to mislead yourself with poltergeists and with talk about possession.”
“I’m not going to die,” she said sharply. “I’m not hiding from anything like that.”
“Why are you afraid to even consider it?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“I think you are.”
“I’m not a coward. And I’m not a liar.”
“Mary, I’m trying to help you.”
“Then believe me!”
He looked at her quizzically. “You don’t have to
how
did I cause glass dogs to fly about?”
“Unconsciously. Cauvel says—”
“Psychiatrists always blame the unconscious.”
“Who’s to say they’re wrong?”
“They’re stupid.”
“Mary—”
“And you’re stupid for believing Cauvel.”
She didn’t want to argue, but she couldn’t control herself. She was frightened by the direction the conversation was taking, although she didn’t know why she should be. She was terrified of some knowledge that lay within her, but she couldn’t understand what that might be.
Standing like a preacher, holding his book as if it were a Bible, Max said, “Will you listen?”
She shook her head to indicate she found him too irritating to bear. “If I’m responsible for his figurines getting busted up, am I also to blame for the bad weather in the East, for the war in Africa, for inflation, for poverty, for the recent crop failures?”
“Sarcasm.”
“You encourage it.”
The tranquilizer was doing her no good whatsoever. She was tense. Trembling. Like a shallow-water, feathery sea anemone quivering in the subtle currents that preceded a storm, she was nervously aware of unseen forces that could destroy her.
Suddenly she felt threatened by Max.
That doesn’t make sense, she thought. Max isn’t any danger to me. He’s trying to help me find the truth, that’s all.
Dizzy, confused, on the verge of anomie, she leaned back against her pillows.
Max opened his book and read in a quiet but urgent voice: “‘
Telekinesis
is the ability to move objects or to cause changes within objects solely by the force of the mind. The phenomenon has most often and most reliably been reported in times of crises or in severe stress situations. For example, automobiles have been levitated from injured people, debris from the dying in fire-swept or collapsed buildings.’”
“I
know
what telekinesis is,” she said.
Max ignored her, kept reading: “‘Telekinesis is often mistaken for the work of poltergeists, which are playful and occasionally malevolent spirits. The existence of poltergeists as astral beings is debatable and certainly unproven. It should be noted that in most houses where poltergeists have appeared, there resides an adolescent with serious identity problems,
or some other person under severe nervous strain
. A good argument could be made that the phenomena often attributed to poltergeists are usually the product of unconscious telekinesis.’”
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “Why would I pitch those dogs around just when I was about to see the killer’s face in the vision?”
“You really didn’t want to see his face, so your subconscious threw those figurines to distract you from the vision.”
“That’s absurd! I
wanted
to see it. I want to stop this man before he kills again.”
Max’s hard gray eyes were like knives, dissecting her. “Are you sure you want to stop him?”
“What kind of question is that?”
He sighed. “Do you know what I think? I think you’ve sensed, through your clairvoyance, that this psychopath will kill you if you pursue him. You’ve seen a possible future, and you’re trying like hell to avoid it.”
Surprised, she said, “Nothing of the sort.”
“The pain you felt—”
“Was the pain of the victims. It wasn’t a foreshadowing of my own death.”
“Maybe you haven’t foreseen the danger consciously,” Max said. “But subconsciously, perhaps, you’ve seen yourself as a victim if you pursue this case. That would explain why you’re trying to mislead yourself with poltergeists and with talk about possession.”
“I’m not going to die,” she said sharply. “I’m not hiding from anything like that.”
“Why are you afraid to even consider it?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“I think you are.”
“I’m not a coward. And I’m not a liar.”
“Mary, I’m trying to help you.”
“Then believe me!”
He looked at her quizzically. “You don’t have to
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