The Vision (2 page)

2

Barnes got out
of the car as the siren moaned into silence.

The revolving red emergency lights cast frenetic shadows on the wet pavement. Another black-and-white had pulled in behind the first, adding its beacons to the cascade of bloody color.

Several men had already climbed out of the second car. Two uniformed officers, Malone and Gonzales, hurried toward Barnes. Mayor Henderson, round and shiny in his black vinyl rain slicker, looked like a balloon bouncing along the street. Close behind him was whip-thin little Harry Oberlander, Henderson’s most vocal critic on the city council.

The last man was Alan Tanner, Mary Tanner Bergen’s brother. Ordinarily, he would have been in the first car with his sister; but he and Max had argued earlier and were keeping away from each other.

“Malone, Gonzales . . . split up,” Barnes said. “Flank the house. Go around it and meet at the rear door. I’ll take the front. Now move it!”

“What about me?” Goldman asked.

Barnes sighed. “You better stay here.”

Goldman was relieved.

Taking the .357 Magnum from his holster, Barnes hurried up the tile walk. The name “Harrington” was printed on the mailbox. As he rang the doorbell, the rain suddenly lost most of its power. The downpour became a drizzle.

Alerted by the sirens, she had watched his approach from the window. She answered the door at once.

“Mrs. Harrington?”

“
Miss
Harrington. After the divorce, I took my maiden name.”

She was a petite blonde in her early forties. She had a lush figure, but she wasn’t carrying any excess weight.

Apparently, her primary occupation was taking good care of herself. Although she wore jeans and a T-shirt and didn’t appear to be going out for the evening, her hair looked as if it had been styled minutes ago; her false eyelashes and makeup were perfectly applied; and her nails were freshly painted the color of orange sherbet.

“Are you alone?” Barnes asked.

Lasciviously, she said, “Why do you ask?”

“This is police business, Miss Harrington.”

“What a shame.” She had a drink in one hand. He knew it wasn’t her first of the night.

“Are you alone?” he asked again.

“I live by myself.”

“Is everything all right?”

“I don’t like living by myself.”

“That’s not what I meant. Are you all right? Is there any trouble here?”

She looked at the revolver that he held at his side. “Should there be?”

Exasperated with her and with having to talk above the loud swing music that boomed behind her, he said, “Maybe. We think your life’s in danger.”

She laughed.

“I know it sounds melodramatic, but—”

“Who’s after me?”

“The newspapers call him ‘The Slasher.’”

She frowned, then instantly dropped the expression as if she had remembered that frowning caused wrinkles. “You’re kidding.”

“We have reason to believe you’re his target tonight.”

“What reason?”

“A clairvoyant.”

“A what?”

Malone entered the living room behind her and switched off the stereo.

She turned, surprised.

Malone said, “We found something, Chief.”

Barnes stepped into the house, uninvited. “Yeah?”

“The back door was open.”

“Did you leave it open?” Barnes asked the woman.

“On a night like this?”

“Was it locked?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s blood on the door frame,” Malone said. “More of it on the door between the laundry room and the kitchen.”

“But he’s gone?”

“Must have run when he heard the sirens.”

Sweating, aware of his too-rapid heartbeat, wondering how to fit clairvoyance and the other psychic phenomena into his previously uncomplicated view of life, Barnes followed the younger officer through the kitchen and laundry room. The woman stayed close beside him, asking questions that he didn’t bother answering.

Hector Gonzales was waiting at the back door.

“There’s an alleyway behind that chain-link fence,” Barnes told him. “Get back there and search for our man, two blocks in each direction.”

The woman said, “I’m bewildered.”

So am I, Barnes thought.

To Malone he said, “Beat the shrubs around both sides of the house. And check out that line of bushes near the fence.”

“Right.”

“And both of you, keep your guns drawn.”

* * *

Waiting by the
squad cars in front of the house, Harry Oberlander was baiting the mayor. He shook his head as if the very sight of Henderson amazed him. “What a mayor you are,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “Hiring a witch to do police work.”

Henderson responded like a weary giant spotting yet one more tiny challenger with delusions of grandeur. “She’s not a witch.”

“Don’t you know there’s no such thing as a witch?”

“Like I said, Councilman, she’s not a witch.”

“She’s a fake.”

“A clairvoyant.”

“Clairvoyant, shmairvoyant.”

“So clever with language.”

“It’s just a fancier name for a witch.”

Dan Goldman watched Oberlander, as weary of the argument as the mayor was. There are no worse enemies, he thought, than two men who used to be best friends. He would have to separate them if Harry became dissatisfied with words and started to throw a few fast but largely ineffective punches at the mayor’s well-padded belly. It had happened before.

“You know why I sold you my half of the furniture business?” Oberlander asked Henderson.

“You sold out because you didn’t have any vision,” Henderson said smugly.

“Vision, smision. I sold out because I knew a superstitious fool like you would run it into the ground sooner or later.”

“The store’s more profitable now than ever before,” Henderson said.

“Luck! Blind luck!”

Fortunately, before the first punch could be thrown, Harley Barnes came to the front door of the house and shouted, “It’s all right. Come on.”

“Now we’ll see who’s the fool,” Henderson said. “They must have caught him.” He ran across the sidewalk and the slippery wet lawn with that unexpected grace peculiar to certain very fat men.

Oberlander scurried after him, an angry mouse snapping at the heels of a behemoth.

Suppressing a laugh, Goldman followed.

* * *

Alan Tanner sat
behind the steering wheel in order to be in the front seat with his sister. When he saw Harley Barnes at the door of the house, he said, “Did they get the killer, Mary?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Her voice was hollow; she sounded drained.

“Wouldn’t there have been a shot?”

“I don’t know.”

“There would have been
some
commotion.”

“I guess so.”

From the rear seat Max said urgently, “Mary, is it safe for Goldman?”

She sighed and shook her head and pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “I really can’t say. I’ve lost the thread. I don’t see anything else.”

Max rolled down his window. The damp air carried his voice well. “Hey, Goldman!”

The officer was halfway across the lawn. He stopped and looked back.

“Maybe you’d better stay here,” Max said.

“Harley wants me,” Goldman said.

“Remember what my wife told you.”

“It’s all right,” Goldman said. “Nothing’s going to happen. They caught him.”

“Are you sure of that?” Max asked.

But Goldman had already turned and was headed for the house again.

Alan said, “Mary?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Are you feeling well?”

“Well enough.”

“You don’t sound good.”

“Just tired.”

“He presses you much too 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 countertops, 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. They sounded extremely odd, as if they had been recorded at seventy-eight revolutions per minute and were being played back at forty-five.

The stranger stepped forward. Light slithered along the well-honed edge of the blade.

As if moving against incredible resistance, Goldman reached for the revolver at his hip.

The knife ripped into his chest. High and to the left. Too deep to contemplate.

Curiously he felt no pain, but the front of his shirt was suddenly soaked with blood.

Mary Bergen, he thought. How could you know? What are you?

He unsnapped his holster.

Too slow. Too damned slow!

Although he didn’t realize that the blade had been wrenched loose from him, he watched with horror as the knife arched down again. The stranger jerked the weapon free, and Goldman collapsed against the wall, framed by a spray of his own blood.

There was still no pain, but his strength was draining out of him as if there was a tap in his ankle.

Can’t fall down, he told himself. Don’t dare fall down. Wouldn’t have a chance.

But the killer was finished. He turned and ran toward the dining room.

Clutching his wounds with his weakening left hand, Goldman staggered after the man. By the time he reached the archway and leaned against it to catch his breath, the killer was nearly to the living room. Goldman had the gun out of his holster, but he found it too heavy to lift. To get Harley’s attention, he fired into the floor. With that explosion, time resumed its normal flow and pain finally smashed through his chest, and suddenly he found it difficult to breathe and his knees buckled and he went down.

* * *

Alan interrupted himself
in the middle of a sentence. “What was that?”

“A shot,” Max said.

Mary said, “Something’s happened to Goldman. I know it as sure as I’m sitting here.”

Someone rushed out of the house. His raincoat flapped and billowed like a cape.

“That’s
him
,” Mary said.

When he saw the squad cars, the man stopped. Confused, he looked left and right, didn’t seem to trust either route, and turned back toward the house.

Harley Barnes appeared at the open door. Even from where he sat, even through the dirty window and the shadows and the thin rain, Max could see the oversized revolver in the cop’s hand. Obscenely, fire licked from the muzzle.

The madman spun as if in an inept ballet, then fell, rolled along the walk. Surprisingly, he scrambled to his feet and headed for the street again. He hadn’t been hit. If he’d taken a bullet from the .357 Magnum, he would have stayed down.