Free The Vision by Dean Koontz Page A

then.”
    “But we never seem to get further into this thing unless we start from the top each time.”
    “I don’t
want
to get further into it.”
    But he was relentless. “What happened that day in August when you were six years old?”
    “Have you gotten any new glass dogs recently?”
    “What did Berton Mitchell do that day in August?”
    “He tried to rape me.”
    * * *
    Six P.M. Early winter night. The air was cool and fresh.
    He left the car at the coffee shop and walked north along the highway, his back to the traffic.
    He had a knife in one pocket, a revolver in the other. He kept his hands on both weapons.
    His shoes crunched in the gravel.
    The wind from the passing cars buffeted him, mussed his hair, pasted his overcoat to his legs.
    The beauty shop, Hair Today, occupied a small detached building on Main Street, just north of the Santa Ana city limits. With its imitation thatched roof, leaded windows, plaster and exposed-beam exterior, the place resembled a cottage in the English countryside—except for the floodlights shining on the front of it, and except for the pink and green paint job.
    The block was strictly commercial. Service stations, fast-food restaurants, real estate offices, dozens of small businesses, all of them nestled in neon and palm trees and jade-plant hedges, flourished like ugly flowers in the money-scented Orange County air. South of Hair Today was the sales lot of an imported-automobile dealership. Row after row of sleek machines huddled in the night. Only the windshields and chrome gleamed malevolently under mercury-vapor lights. North, beyond the beauty shop, lay a three-screen motion picture theater, and beyond that a shopping center.
    A dirty white Cadillac and a shiny Triumph stood on the macadam parking area in front of Hair Today.
    He crossed the lot, walked between the cars, opened the cottage door, and went inside.
    The narrow front room was a lounge where women marked time until their appointments. The carpet was purple and plush, the chairs bright yellow, the drapes white. There were end tables, ashtrays, and stacks of magazines, but at this late hour there were no customers waiting.
    At the rear of the room was a purple and white counter. A cash register rested on it, and a woman with bleached blond hair sat on a stool behind it.
    In back of the 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