the few seconds that the psychic images had coruscated through her mind. However, with each datum came the brutal recollection of that knife she had shared mystically with the dying woman.
“What’s the name of the beauty shop?” Max asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s it located?”
“Not far from here.”
“In Orange County again?”
“Yes.”
“Which town?”
“I don’t know.”
He sighed, sat down in the armchair opposite hers. “Is the killer the same as the one you saw last night?”
“No doubt about it.”
“So he’s a repeater, a psychopath, a mass murderer. He’s going to kill four or five people in one place and three in another.”
“That may only be the start,” she said softly.
“What does he look like?”
“I still don’t know.”
“Is he a big man or small?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s his name?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Is he young or old?”
“I don’t even know that.”
The room was stuffy. The air was stale, almost rank. She got up and opened the window.
“If you can’t get an image of him,” Max said, “how can you tell it’s the same killer in both visions?”
“I just
can
, that’s all.”
She sat down, face to the window.
She felt hollow, light. She could imagine being carried off by the breeze, slight as it was. The unbidden visions had sucked a lot of energy from her. She wouldn’t be able to endure many more of them. Certainly not a life full of them.
Pretty soon, she thought, I won’t need a tornado like Dorothy did. Just a puff of air will carry
me
off to Oz.
“What can we do to keep him from killing?” Max asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then let’s put him out of our minds for now.”
She scowled. “Know when I feel worst? You know when I feel so awful I hardly want to live?”
He waited.
Her hands were in her lap, her fingers at war with one another. “It’s when I know something horrible will happen—but I don’t know enough to stop it from happening. If I must have this power, why wasn’t I given it without strings attached? Why can’t I turn it on and off like a television set? Why does it sometimes get all cloudy for me when I need it the most? Am I supposed to be tormented? Is it a nasty joke? A lot of people are going to die because I can’t see clearly. Dammit, dammit, dammit!” She jumped up, strode to the television. She turned the set on, off, on, off, on, off, with nearly enough force to break the switch.
“You can’t feel responsible for what you see in your visions,” he said.
“But I do.”
“You’ve got to change.”
“I won’t. I can’t.”
He stood up, went to her, took her hand from the television controls. “Why don’t you freshen up? We’ll do some shopping.”
“Not me,” she said. “I have an appointment with Dr. Cauvel.”
“That’s two and a half hours from now.”
“I’m not up to shopping,” she said. “You go. I’ll make the rounds tomorrow.”
“I can’t leave you here alone.”
“I won’t be alone. Anna and Emmet are here.”
“You shouldn’t drive.”
“Why not?”
“What if you have another attack while you’re behind the wheel?”
“Oh. Then Emmet can drive me.”
“What’ll you do until you see the analyst?”
“Write a column,” she said.
“We sent a packet to the syndicate last week. We’re already twenty columns ahead of schedule.”
Although she didn’t feel well, she managed a light tone. “We’re twenty ahead because you wrote fifteen of them. It’s time I did my share. Being twenty-one ahead won’t hurt.”
“There’s some material on my desk about that woman in North Carolina who can predict the sex of unborn babies just by touching the mother. They’re studying her at Duke University.”
“Then that’s what I’ll write about.”
“Well, if you’re positive . . . ”
“I am. Now scoot over to Gucci, Giorgio’s, The French Corner, Juel Park, Courrèges, Van Cleef and Arpels—and buy me beautiful
“What’s the name of the beauty shop?” Max asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s it located?”
“Not far from here.”
“In Orange County again?”
“Yes.”
“Which town?”
“I don’t know.”
He sighed, sat down in the armchair opposite hers. “Is the killer the same as the one you saw last night?”
“No doubt about it.”
“So he’s a repeater, a psychopath, a mass murderer. He’s going to kill four or five people in one place and three in another.”
“That may only be the start,” she said softly.
“What does he look like?”
“I still don’t know.”
“Is he a big man or small?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s his name?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Is he young or old?”
“I don’t even know that.”
The room was stuffy. The air was stale, almost rank. She got up and opened the window.
“If you can’t get an image of him,” Max said, “how can you tell it’s the same killer in both visions?”
“I just
can
, that’s all.”
She sat down, face to the window.
She felt hollow, light. She could imagine being carried off by the breeze, slight as it was. The unbidden visions had sucked a lot of energy from her. She wouldn’t be able to endure many more of them. Certainly not a life full of them.
Pretty soon, she thought, I won’t need a tornado like Dorothy did. Just a puff of air will carry
me
off to Oz.
“What can we do to keep him from killing?” Max asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then let’s put him out of our minds for now.”
She scowled. “Know when I feel worst? You know when I feel so awful I hardly want to live?”
He waited.
Her hands were in her lap, her fingers at war with one another. “It’s when I know something horrible will happen—but I don’t know enough to stop it from happening. If I must have this power, why wasn’t I given it without strings attached? Why can’t I turn it on and off like a television set? Why does it sometimes get all cloudy for me when I need it the most? Am I supposed to be tormented? Is it a nasty joke? A lot of people are going to die because I can’t see clearly. Dammit, dammit, dammit!” She jumped up, strode to the television. She turned the set on, off, on, off, on, off, with nearly enough force to break the switch.
“You can’t feel responsible for what you see in your visions,” he said.
“But I do.”
“You’ve got to change.”
“I won’t. I can’t.”
He stood up, went to her, took her hand from the television controls. “Why don’t you freshen up? We’ll do some shopping.”
“Not me,” she said. “I have an appointment with Dr. Cauvel.”
“That’s two and a half hours from now.”
“I’m not up to shopping,” she said. “You go. I’ll make the rounds tomorrow.”
“I can’t leave you here alone.”
“I won’t be alone. Anna and Emmet are here.”
“You shouldn’t drive.”
“Why not?”
“What if you have another attack while you’re behind the wheel?”
“Oh. Then Emmet can drive me.”
“What’ll you do until you see the analyst?”
“Write a column,” she said.
“We sent a packet to the syndicate last week. We’re already twenty columns ahead of schedule.”
Although she didn’t feel well, she managed a light tone. “We’re twenty ahead because you wrote fifteen of them. It’s time I did my share. Being twenty-one ahead won’t hurt.”
“There’s some material on my desk about that woman in North Carolina who can predict the sex of unborn babies just by touching the mother. They’re studying her at Duke University.”
“Then that’s what I’ll write about.”
“Well, if you’re positive . . . ”
“I am. Now scoot over to Gucci, Giorgio’s, The French Corner, Juel Park, Courrèges, Van Cleef and Arpels—and buy me beautiful
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