Free The Vision by Dean Koontz Page B

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—
wicka-wicka-wicka
 . . .
    She stood up, walked away from the chair.
    The wings held her.
    “What else did he want you to do?” Cauvel asked.
    “Something awful, unspeakable.”
    “A sex act of some sort?”
    Wicka-wicka-wicka
 . . .
    “Not just sex. More than that,” she said.
    “What was it?”
    “Dirty. Filthy.”
    “In what way?”
    “Eyes watching me.”
    “Mitchell’s eyes?”
    “Not his.”
    “Who then?”
    “I can’t remember.”
    “You can.”
    Wicka-wicka
 . . .
    “Wings,” she said.
    “Rings? You’re speaking too softly again.”
    “Wings,” she said. “Wings.”
    “What do you mean?”
    She was shaking, vibrating. She was afraid her legs would fail her. She returned to the armchair. “Wings. I can hear them flapping. I can
feel
them.”
    “You mean Mitchell kept a bird in the house?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “A parrot perhaps?”
    “I couldn’t say.”
    “Work at remembering it, Mary. Don’t let go of this thought. You’ve never mentioned wings before. It’s important.”
    “They were everywhere.”
    “The wings?”
    “All over me. Little wings.”
    “Think. What did he do to you?”
    She was silent a long while. The pressure began to ease a bit. The sound of wings faded.
    “Mary?”
    Finally she said, “That’s all. I can’t recall anything else.”
    “There is a way to unlock those memories,” he said.
    “Hypnosis,” she replied.
    “It works.”
    “I’m afraid to remember.”
    “You should be afraid
not
to remember.”
    “If I remember, I’ll die.”
    “That’s ridiculous, and you know it.”
    She pushed her hair back