Free Vision by Dean Koontz Page A

woman a curtained archway led to the working part of the shop. The sound of a hand-held hair dryer penetrated the curtain like the buzz of angry bees.
    “We’re closed,” the bleached blonde said.
    He went to the counter.
    “Are you looking for someone?” she said.
    He took the revolver out of his pocket. It felt good in his hand. It felt like justice.
    She stared at the gun, then into his eyes. She licked her lips. “What do you want?”
    He didn’t speak.
    She said, “Now wait.”
    He pulled the trigger. The sound was masked somewhat by the noisy dryer.
    She fell off the stool and didn’t get up.
    The hair dryer shut off. From the back room someone said, “Tina?”
    He walked around the dead woman, parted the curtains and stepped through them.
    Of the four salon chairs, three were empty. The last customer of the day sat in the fourth chair. She was young and pretty, with an impossibly creamy complexion. Her hair was straight and wet.
    The hairdresser was a burly man, bald, with a bristling black mustache. He wore a purple uniform shirt with his first name, Kyle, embroidered in yellow on the breast pocket.
    The woman drew a deep breath, but she couldn’t find the courage to scream.
    “Who are you?” Kyle asked.
    He shot Kyle twice.
    “My father wasn’t at home that day,” Mary said.
    “And your mother?”
    “She was up at the main house. Drunk as usual. ”
    “And your brother?”
    “Alan was in his room, working on his model airplanes.”
    “The gardener, Berton Mitchell?”
    “His wife and son were away for the week. Mitchell... got me into his place, enticed me into it.”
    “Where was this?”
    “Down at the far end of the estate, a little cottage with a green shingle roof. He often told me that elves lived with his family.”
    An awesome force pressed against her from all sides. She felt as if she was enfolded by leather wings, muscular wings that were draining the heat from her, squeezing the life out of her.
    “Go on,” Cauvel said.
    Relentlessly the warmth dropped out of her like mercury falling in a thermometer. She was a cold, hollow reed of glass, brittle, breakable. “More brandy?”
    “When you’ve finished telling me,” Cauvel said.
    “I need help with this.”
    “I’m here to help you, Mary.”
    “If I tell, he’ll hurt me.”
    “Who? Mitchell? You don’t believe that. You know he’s dead. He was found guilty of child molestation, of assault with intent to kill. He hung himself in his cell. I’m the only one here, and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
    “I was alone with him.”
    “You’re speaking so softly I can’t hear you.”
    “I was alone with him,” she said again. “He... touched... me ... exposed himself.”
    “Were you frightened?”
    “Yes.”
    The pressure was intense, unbearable, and getting worse.
    Cauvel didn’t speak, and she said, “I was frightened because he wanted me ... to do things.”
    “What things?”
    The air was foul. Although only she and the doctor were in the room, she felt that some creature had its lips to hers and was forcing its rank breath into her lungs.
    “I need brandy,” she said.
    “What you need is to tell me all of this, to remember every last detail, to get it out in the open once and for all. What things did he want you to do?”
    “Help me. You’ve got to guide me.”
    “He wanted to have intercourse, didn’t he?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    Her hands were numb. She could feel cords biting into them. But there were no cords.
    “Oral intercourse?” Cauvel asked.
    “But not only that.”
    Her ankles were sore. She could feel cords that were not there. She moved her feet. They were leaden.
    “What else did he want to do?” Cauvel asked.
    “I don’t recall.”
    “You can remember if you want to.”
    “No. Honestly, I can’t. I can’t.”
    “What else did he want you to do?”
    The embrace of the imaginary wings was so tight that she had difficulty breathing. She could hear them beating the air—