Vision by Dean Koontz Page B

been able to initiate the conclusion of one. Psychologically, she wasn’t capable of making the first gesture for peace. She left that move to the men. Always. She knew that wasn’t fair, but she could not change.
    She supposed that this inadequacy dated back to her father’s violent death. He had left her so suddenly that she still sometimes felt abandoned. All of her adult life she had worried about men walking out on her before she was prepared to end the relationship.
    And of course she wasn’t ever going to be ready to end her marriage ; that was for keeps. Therefore, whenever she and Max argued, whenever she had reason to worry about his leaving, she forced him to pick up the olive branch. It was a test which he could pass only if he would sacrifice more pride than she ; and when he had done that, he would have proved that he loved her and that he would never leave her as her father had done.
    The death of her father was more important than whatever Berton Mitchell had done to her.
    Why couldn’t Dr. Cauvel see that?
     
 
In the dark bedroom, when it became evident that neither of them could sleep, Max touched her. His hands affected her in the same way that the rapidly vibrating tines of a tuning fork would affect fine crystal. She trembled uncontrollably and shattered. She broke against him, weeping.
    He didn’t speak. Words no longer mattered.
    He held her for a few minutes, and then he began to stroke her. He slid one hand over her silk pajamas, along her flank, across her buttocks. Slow, warm movement. And then he popped open two buttons on her blouse, slipped his hand inside, felt her warm breast, his fingers lingering on her nipple only for an instant. She put her open mouth to his neck, against the hard muscle. His strong pulse was transmitted to her through her tender lips. He undressed her and then himself. The bandage on his hand brushed her bare thigh.
    “Your finger,” she said.
    “It’ll be fine.”
    “The cut might come open,” she said. “It might start to bleed again.”
    “Sshhh, ” he said.
    He was not in the mood to be patient, and although she hadn’t said a word, he sensed she was equally anxious. He rose above her in the lightless air, as if taking flight, then settled over her. Although she had expected nothing more than the special joy of closeness, she climaxed within a minute. Not intensely. A gentle rush of pleasure. However, when she came a second time, moments before he finished far down inside of her, she cried out with delight.
    For a while she lay at his side, holding his hand. Finally she said, “Don’t ever leave me. Stay with me as long as I live.”
    “As long as you live,” Max promised.
    At five-thirty on Wednesday morning, in the middle of a nightmare vision of the killer’s next crime, Mary was catapulted from sleep by the sound of gunfire. A single shot, ear-splitting, too close. Even as the boom was bouncing off the bedroom walls, she sat up, threw off the blanket and sheet, swung her legs out of bed. “Max! What’s wrong? Max!”
    Beside her, he switched on the lamp, jumped up from the bed. He stood, swaying, blinking.
    The sudden light hurt her eyes. Although she was squinting, she could see there was no intruder in the room.
    Max reached for the loaded handgun that he kept on the nightstand. It was not there.
    “Where’s the pistol?” he asked.
    “I didn’t touch it,” she said.
    Then, as her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the gun. It was floating in the air near the foot of the bed, floating five feet above the floor, as if it were suspended from wires, except that there were no wires. The barrel was pointed at her.
    The poltergeist.
    “Jesus!” Max said.
    Although no visible finger pulled the trigger, a second shot exploded. The bullet tore into the headboard inches from Mary’s face.
    She panicked. Gasping, whimpering, she ran across the room, hunched as if she were crippled. The gun traversed to the left, covering her. She came to a