Free The Vision by Dean Koontz

standard technique with his patients. His style was very much his own. She liked his quiet, friendly approach.
    “Where would you like to begin?” he asked.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Take your time.”
    “I don’t want to begin at all.”
    “You always say that, and you always begin.”
    “Not today. I’d just like to sit here.”
    He nodded, sipped his brandy.
    “Why am I always so difficult for you?” she asked.
    “I can’t answer that.
You
can.”
    “Why don’t I want to talk to you?”
    “Oh, you do want to talk. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
    Frowning, she said, “Help me start.”
    “What were you thinking about on your way here?”
    “That’s no place to start.”
    “Try it.”
    “Well . . . I was thinking about what I am.”
    “And what’s that?”
    “A clairvoyant.”
    “What about it?”
    “Why me? Why not someone else?”
    “The top researchers in this field believe we all have the same paranormal talents.”
    “Maybe,” she said. “But most people don’t have it to the extent that I do.”
    “We just don’t recognize our potential,” he said. “Only a handful of people have found a way to use their ESP.”
    “So why did
I
find a way?”
    “Haven’t all of the best clairvoyants suffered head injuries at some time prior to the discovery of their psychic powers?”
    “Peter Hurkos did,” she said. “And a number of others. But not all of us.”
    “Did you?”
    “Suffer a head injury? No.”
    “Yes, you did.”
    She sipped her brandy. “What a wonderful taste.”
    “You were injured when you were six years old. You’ve mentioned it a few times, but you’ve never wanted to pursue it.”
    “And I don’t want to pursue it now.”
    “You should,” Cauvel said. “Your reluctance to discuss it is proof that—”
    “You’re talking too much today.” Her voice was hard, too loud. “I pay you to listen.”
    “You don’t pay me at all.” As always, he spoke gently.
    “I could walk out of here right now.”
    He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.
    “Without me,” she said sharply, disliking his studied calm, “you wouldn’t have the data to write those articles that make you a big man among the other shrinks.”
    “The articles aren’t that important. If you want so much to walk out, do it. Shall we terminate our arrangement?”
    She sagged back into her chair. “Sorry.” She seldom raised her voice. It wasn’t like her to shout at him. She was blushing.
    “No need to apologize,” he said. “But don’t you see that this experience twenty-four years ago might be the root of your problem? It could be the underlying cause of your insomnia, of your periodic deep depressions, of your anxiety attacks.”
    She felt weak. She closed her eyes. “You want me to pursue it.”
    “That would be a good idea.”
    “Help me start.”
    “You were six years old.”
    “Six . . . ”
    “Your father had money then.”
    “Quite a lot of it.”
    “You lived on a small estate.”
    “Twenty acres,” she said. “Most of it landscaped. There was a full-time . . . a full-time . . . ”
    “Gardener.”
    “Gardener,” she said. She wasn’t blushing anymore. Her cheeks were cold. Her hands were icy.
    “What was his name?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “Of course you do.”
    “Berton Mitchell.”
    “Did you like him?”
    “At first I did.”
    “You said once that he teased you.”
    “In a fun way. And he had a special name for me.”
    “What did he call you?”
    “Contrary. As if that were my real name.”
    “
Were
you contrary?”
    “Not the least bit. He was teasing. He got it from the nursery rhyme. ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary’ . . . ”
    “When did you stop liking Berton Mitchell?”
    She wanted to be home with Max. She could almost feel his arms around her.
    “When did you stop liking him, Mary?”
    “That day in August.”
    “What happened?”
    “You know.”
    “Yes, I do know.”
    “Well