The Vision Read Free Page B

hard,” Alan told her solicitously. He didn’t even glance back at Max. He spoke as if he and his sister were alone in the car. “He doesn’t realize how fragile you are.”
    “I’m okay,” she said.
    Alan wouldn’t quit. “He doesn’t know how to prompt you, how to help you refine the visions. He doesn’t have any finesse. He always presses too hard.”
    You creepy little bastard, Max thought, staring hard at his brother-in-law.
    For Mary’s sake, he said nothing. She was easily upset when the two men in her life argued. She preferred to pretend that they were charmed by each other. And while she never entirely took Alan’s side, she always blamed Max when the argument became particularly bitter.
    To get his mind off Alan, he studied the house. A shaft of light thrust through the open door, silhouetted some of the dense lumps of shrubbery. “Maybe we should lock the car doors,” he said.
    Mary turned sideways in her seat and stared at him. “Lock the doors?”
    “For protection.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “For protection from what?” Alan asked.
    “The cops are all up at the house, and none of us has a weapon.”
    “You think we’ll need one?”
    “It’s a possibility.”
    “Are you getting psychic now?” Alan asked.
    Max forced himself to smile. “Nothing psychic about it, I’m afraid. Just good sense.” He locked his and Mary’s doors, and when he saw that Alan wouldn’t cooperate, he latched both doors on the driver’s side.
    “Feel safe now?” Alan asked.
    Max watched the house.
     
 
Barnes, Henderson, and Oberlander crowded into the laundry room to examine the smears of blood that the killer had left behind.
    Miss Harrington squeezed in beside the chief, determined not to miss any of the excitement. She appeared to be delighted to have been the madman’s choice.
    Dan Goldman preferred to remain in the kitchen. As Barnes explained how these few pieces of physical evidence matched the clairvoyant’s visions, the mayor would begin to gloat. Harry Oberlander would be embarrassed, then outraged. The nasty bickering would quickly escalate into a loud and vicious exchange. Goldman had had enough of that.
    Besides, the big kitchen deserved an appreciative inspection. It had been designed and furnished by someone who enjoyed cooking and who could afford the best.
    Miss Harrington? Goldman wondered. She didn’t seem to be a woman who would welcome the opportunity to pass several hours in front of a stove. No doubt, the cook had been her ex-husband.
    Quite a lot of money had been spent to create a professional kitchen with a country home atmosphere. The floor was of Mexican tile with brown grouting. There were oak cabinets with porcelain hardware, white ceramic counter tops, two standard ovens and a microwave oven, two large refrigerator-freezers, two double sinks, an island cooking surface, a built-in appliance center, and a dozen other machines, tools, and gadgets.
    Goldman liked to cook, but he had to make do with a battered gas range and the cheapest pots, pans, and utensils on the market.
    His envious appraisal of the kitchen was interrupted when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a door opening beside and somewhat behind him, no more than a yard away. It had been ajar when he’d entered the room, but he hadn’t thought anything of it. Now he turned and saw a man in a raincoat stepping out of a pantry that was lined with canned goods. The stranger’s left hand was bloody, the thumb tucked into a tight fist.
    She was right, Goldman thought. Christ!
    In his raised right hand the killer held a butcher knife by its thick wooden handle.
    Time ceased to have meaning for Goldman. Each second extended itself a hundredfold. Each moment expanded like a soap bubble, encapsulated him, separated him from the rest of the world where clocks maintained their proper pace.
    In the distance Henderson and Oberlander were arguing again. It didn’t seem possible that they were only one room away.