Vision by Dean Koontz Page A

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 shout.”
    “You never hear me unless I shout!”
    “Mary, why do you want to argue?”
    I don’t, she thought. Stop me. Hold me.
    “You started this,” she said.
    “I only asked you to consider an alternative to this business about possession. You’re overreacting.”
    I know, she thought. I know I am. And I don’t know why. I don’t want to hurt you. I need you.
    But all she said was, “Listening to you, I’d think I was never right about anything. I’m always overreacting or mistaken or misled or confused. You treat me as if I’m a child.”
    “You’re treating yourself with condescension.”
    “Just a silly little child.”
    Hug me, kiss me, love me, she thought. Please make me stop this. I don’t want to argue. I’m scared.
    He started toward the bedroom door. “This isn’t the time to talk. You’re not in the mood for constructive criticism.”
    “Because I’m behaving like a child?”
    “Yes.”
    “Sometimes you fucking piss me off.”
    He stopped, turned back to her. “That’s like a child,” he said calmly. “Like a child who’s trying to shock a grownup with a lot of dirty words.”
    She opened her book to the page she had marked and, refusing to acknowledge him, she pretended to read.
     
 
She would rather have suffered disabling pain than even temporary estrangement from Max. When they argued, which was rarely, she felt imiserable. The two or three hours of silence that invariably followed a disagreement, and which were usually her fault, were unbearable.
    She spent the remainder of the evening in bed with a copy of The Occult by Colin Wilson. As she began each page, she could not remember what had been on the page before it.
    Max stayed on his side of the bed, reading a novel and smoking his pipe. He might as well have been a thousand miles away.
    The eleven o’clock television news, which she switched on by remote control, headlined a grisly story about slaughter in a Santa Ana beauty salon. There was film of the blood-smeared shop and interviews with police officials who had nothing to say.
    “You see?” Mary said. “I was right about the nurses. I was right about the beauty salon. And, by God, I’m right about Richard Lingard, too.”
    Even as she spoke, she regretted the words, and especially her tone of voice.
    He looked at her but said nothing.
    She looked away, down at her book. She hadn’t meant to revive the argument. Quite the opposite. She wanted to get him talking once more. She wanted to hear his voice.
    Although she often started arguments, she had never