The Vision (3 page)

Max was certain of that. He knew a great deal about firearms. He owned an extensive collection of guns.

Barnes fired again.

“Dammit!” Max said furiously. “Small-town cops. Overarmed and undertrained. If that ass misses his man, he’ll kill one of us!”

The third shot took the killer in the back as he reached the sidewalk.

Max could tell two things about the bullet. Because it didn’t exit from the killer’s chest and pierce the car window, it had been insufficiently packed with powder. It was designed for use on crowded streets; it had just enough punch to stop a guilty man without passing through him and harming others. Secondly, considering how it had lifted the man off his feet, the bullet was surely hollow-nosed.

After an instant of graceless flight, the killer slammed hard into the police cruiser. For a moment he clung to Mary’s door. He slid down until he was peering at her. “Mary Bergen . . .” His voice was hoarse. He clawed at the window. “Mary Bergen.” Blood spouted from his mouth and painted the glass.

Mary screamed.

The corpse dropped to the sidewalk.

3

The ambulance carrying
Dan Goldman turned the corner as fast as it could without flipping on its side.

Max hoped the siren was fading more rapidly than the young patrolman’s life.

On the sidewalk the dead man lay on his back. He stared at the sky and waited patiently for the coroner.

“She’s upset about the killer knowing her name,” Alan said.

“He saw her picture in her newspaper column,” Max said. “Somehow he heard she was coming to town to find him.”

“But only the mayor and the city council knew. And the cops.”

“Somehow this guy heard. He knew she was in town and he recognized her. There’s nothing supernatural about it. Is that what she thinks?”

“I know there’s a simple explanation, and you know it. Deep down she knows it, too. But considering what she’s seen in her life, she can’t help wondering. Now, I’ve talked to Barnes. He can spare a man and a car for us. We should get Mary back to the hotel so she can lie down.”

“We will,” Max said, “when everything’s settled with the mayor.”

“That could be hours.”

“Half an hour at most,” Max said. “Now, if that’s all you wanted to talk to me about—”

“She’s dead tired.”

“Aren’t we all? She’ll be okay.”

“The loving husband.”

“Go to hell.”

They were standing behind the first squad car. Mary still sat inside with her eyes closed and her hands folded in her lap.

The rain had stopped. The air was moist and fragrant.

Glancing nervously at the people who had come out of their homes to gather around the pathetic scene, Alan said, “There’ll be reporters here any minute. I don’t think she should have to put up with a lot of reporters tonight.”

Max knew what his brother-in-law wanted. Tomorrow Alan began a two-week vacation. Before leaving he hoped to have a final conversation with his sister, just the two of them, one last uninterrupted hour in which to convince her that she had married a man who was terribly wrong for her.

His fists were the only tools Max had to prevent this domestic sedition. He was six inches taller and forty pounds heavier than Alan. He had shoulders and biceps designed for dock work, and the outsized hands of a basketball star. However, he knew that split lips and broken teeth and a cracked jaw would silence Alan Tanner only temporarily. Short of killing him, there was no way to put an end to his meddling.

Anyway, Max no longer tried to solve his problems with his fists. He had promised Mary and himself that his violent days were gone forever.

Other than strength and the will to use it, Alan had all the weapons in this intensely personal war. Not the least of them was his appearance. He had black hair and blue eyes, like Mary. He was handsome, while Max was so rough-hewn that he barely avoided ugliness. Alan’s powerfully sensuous features, highlighted by a look of boyish innocence, could affect even a sister.

Especially
a sister.

Alan’s voice was as sweet and persuasive as an actor’s. He was able to create moods and build drama with his voice. He employed it subtly to gain Mary’s sympathy and to cause her to look upon her new husband with mild, unconscious, but insidious displeasure.

Max knew his mind was better than average, but he also knew that Alan was his intellectual superior. It wasn’t the voice alone that won arguments. There was wit behind those mellifluous tones.

And charm?

Whenever Alan needed it, charm oozed from him.

I’d like to roll him up tight like an empty tube of toothpaste, Max thought. Squeeze all the charm out of him and see if there’s any truth behind it.

Most important of all, Alan and Mary had shared thirty years; he was thirty-three and, as an older brother, was welded to her by blood, common experience, more than a little tragedy, and three decades of day-to-day life.

As the crowd grew around him, Max watched yet another police car approach. He said, “You’re right. She shouldn’t be here any longer than necessary.”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll take her to the hotel right away.”

“You?” Alan asked, surprised. “You have to stay here.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Grudgingly, Alan said, “You’re better at this than I am.”

“Better at what?” Max asked.

“You know why you need to hear it? Because it’s all you’ve got going for you. It’s the only thing you can use to hold her.”

“Better at what?”

“So insecure.”

“Better at what!”

“You’re better at getting the money. Does that satisfy you?”

Mary made a good living as the author of a syndicated newspaper column about psychic phenomena. She had also earned a lot of money with three bestselling books about her career, and she could have survived quite well on her speaking fees alone if she’d wanted.

Although she traveled extensively, aiding authorities with investigations of violent homicides whenever they asked her to do so, she didn’t profit from any of that. She didn’t charge for her visions. Once she helped a famous actress locate a hundred-thousand-dollar diamond necklace that was lost, and she took no fee. She never required more than expenses—airline tickets, car rentals, meals, and lodging—from those whom she assisted; and she refused even that much if she thought she’d been of little or no service.

When Max first came into her life, the collection of expense money was her brother’s duty. But Alan had no talent or taste for quibbling with mayors, councilmen, and bureaucrats. As often as not, when Mary had done her work and the guilty man had been found, the local politicians who had summoned her tried to get rid of her without paying what they owed. Alan seldom pressured them. As a result, tens of thousands of dollars in expenses were lost each year; and although Mary earned considerable sums, she was slowly going broke.

Within two months following the wedding Max straightened out Mary’s financial affairs. He renegotiated her contract with the lecture bureau and doubled her speaking fee. When her contract with the newspaper syndicate came due for renewal, he made a far more advantageous deal than she had thought possible. And he never failed to get a check for expenses.

“Well?” Alan said.

“All right. You take her back to the hotel. But remember what you said. I’m better at getting the money. And I always will be.”

“Of course. You have a nose for it,” Alan said. His smile had no warmth. “You sniffed out Mary’s money pretty damned fast, didn’t you?”

“Go,” Max said.

“Too much truth in that for you?”

“Get out of here before you find yourself looking up your own ass for the rest of your life.”

Alan blinked.

Max didn’t.

Alan walked over to Harley Barnes.

Gradually Max became aware of a number of people in the crowd who were staring at him. He stared back at them, one at a time. Each grew self-conscious and turned away—but each looked at him again as soon as he moved his gaze.

None of them was close enough to have heard the argument. He realized that they were staring because his face was contorted by rage, because his shoulders were drawn up like those of a stalking panther, because his huge hands were in tight fists at his sides. He tried to relax, to let his shoulders fall. And he put his hands in the pockets of his raincoat so that no one could see he was too infuriated to uncurl them.

4

The hotel room
had four ugly lamps with garishly patterned shades, but only one of them was on.

In a black vinyl armchair that stood on a swivel base Alan folded his hands around a glass of Scotch that he wasn’t drinking. The light fell over him from the left, carving his face with sharp shadows.

Mary was sitting up in bed, on top of the covers, well out of the light. She wished Max would get back so they could go out for a late supper and a couple of drinks. She was hungry and tired and emotionally exhausted.

“Still have a headache?” Alan asked.

“The aspirin helped.”

“You’re drawn . . . so pale.”

“There’s nothing wrong that eight hours of sleep won’t cure.”

“I worry about you,” he said.

She smiled affectionately. “You’ve always worried about me, dear. Even when we were children.”

“I care about you very much.”

“I know that.”

“You’re my sister. I love you.”

“I know, but—”

“He presses you too hard.”

“Not this again, Alan.”

“He does.”

“I wish you and Max could get along.”

“So do I. But we never will.”

“But
why?
”

“Because I know what he is.”

“And what’s that?”

“For one thing, he’s so different from you,” Alan said. “He’s not as sensitive as you are. He’s not as kind.” He seemed to be pleading with her. “You’re gentle, and he’s—”

“He can be gentle, too.”

“Can he?”

“With me he can. He’s sweet.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” she said sarcastically. Anger flared briefly in her but was quickly extinguished. She couldn’t stay angry with Alan for more than a minute. Even a minute was stretching it.

“Mary, I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Then don’t.”

“We never had cross words, not in thirty years . . . until he came into the picture.”

“I’m not up to this tonight.”

“You’re not up to anything because he presses you too hard and too fast when he’s guiding you through your visions.”

“He does it well.”

“Not as well as I did it.”

“At first he was too insistent,” she admitted. “Too anxious. But not anymore.”

Alan put down his Scotch, got up, turned his back on her. He went to the window. Moody silence enveloped him.

She closed her eyes and wished Max would get back.

After a minute Alan walked away from the window. He stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at her. “I’m afraid to go away on vacation.”

Without opening her eyes, she said, “Afraid of what?”

“I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with Max.”

“That’s what I mean—alone with Max.”

“Alan, for Christ’s sake!”

“I mean it.”

She opened her eyes, sat up straighter. “You’re being silly. Ridiculous. I won’t listen to any more of this.”

“If I didn’t care what happens to you, I could walk out right now. Whether you want to hear it or not, I’m going to say what I think is true about him.”

She sighed.

“He’s an opportunist,” Alan said.

“So what?”

“He likes money.”

“So do I. So do you.”

“He likes it too much.”

She smiled indulgently. “I’m not sure you can ever like it too much, dear.”

“Don’t you understand?”

“Enlighten me.”

Alan hesitated. There was sadness in his beautiful eyes. “Max likes
other people’s
money too much.”

She stared at him, surprised. “Look . . . if you’re saying he married me for my money—”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying.”

“Then it’s
you
who’s pressing me too hard.” There was steel in her voice now.

He changed his tone with her, spoke softly. “All I’m trying to do is make you face facts. I don’t—”

She raised herself up, away from the headboard. “Am I so ugly that no one would want me if I were poor?”

“You’re beautiful. You know that.”

She wasn’t satisfied. “Then am I some mindless little twit who bores men to death?”

“Don’t shout,” Alan said. “Calm down. Please.” He seemed genuinely grieved that he had hurt her. But he didn’t change the subject. “Plenty of men would give everything they own to marry you. And for all the right reasons. Why you ever picked Max—”

“He was the first decent prospect, the first full-fledged man who asked.”

“That’s not true. I know of four others who asked.”

“The first two were spineless wonders,” she said. “The third one was about as gentle and considerate in bed as a bull is in the ring. The other one was virtually impotent. Max wasn’t any of that. He was different, interesting, exciting.”

“You didn’t marry him because he was exciting, or because he was intelligent or mysterious or romantic. You married him because he was big, strong, and gruff. A perfect father image.”

“Since when have you practiced psychiatry?”

She knew Alan didn’t want to pick at her like this. He continued only because he felt she needed to hear it. He was being a conscientious big brother. Even though he was misguided, his intentions were admirable. If she hadn’t been certain of that, she would have asked him to leave.

“I don’t have to be a psychiatrist to know that you need to lean on someone. You always have. From the day you realized what your clairvoyance was, what it meant, you’ve been frightened of it, unable to deal with it yourself. You leaned on me for a while. But I wasn’t tall enough or broad-shouldered enough to fill the role for long.”

“Alan, for the first time in my life I have the urge to slap your face.”

He came around and sat down on the edge of the bed. He took her left hand in both of his. “Mary, he was a newspaper hack, a washed-up reporter who hadn’t covered a major story in ten years. You knew him just six weeks before you were married.”

“That’s all the longer I
needed
to know him.” She relaxed, squeezed Alan’s hand. “It’s working out fine, dear. You should be happy for me.”

“You’ve only been married four months.”

“Long enough to like him even better than I did when he proposed.”

“He’s a dangerous man. You know his past.”

“A few fights in barrooms . . . and he doesn’t go to barrooms anymore.”

“It’s not as innocent as that. He nearly killed some people in those brawls.”

“When they’ve had too much to drink and are feeling mean, some men will go after the biggest man in the room. Max was a natural target. He didn’t start any of those fights.”

“So he says.”

“No one ever pressed charges.”

“Maybe they were afraid to.”

“He’s changed. What he needed was someone who loved him, someone he could feel responsible for. He needed me.”

Alan nodded forlornly. “Want a drink?”

“I’ll wait for Max.”

He drank his Scotch in three swallows. “You’re absolutely sure about him?”

“About Max? Positive.”

He went to the window again, studied the night sky for a moment. “I don’t think I’ll be returning to work with you after my vacation.”

She got up, went to him, took hold of his shoulder and turned him around. “Say again?”

“I’m a fifth wheel now.”

“Nonsense. You take care of so much of my business—”

“That’s nothing a secretary couldn’t handle,” Alan said. “Before Max, I was vital. I was your guide through the visions. But there’s nothing important for me to do anymore. And I don’t need this constant friction with Max.”

“But what will you do?”

“I’m not sure. I think I’ll start by taking two months vacation instead of two weeks. I can afford it. You’ve been very generous to me and—”

“Not generous. You earned your share. Alan—”

“I’ve got enough money put away to keep me for years. Maybe I’ll go back to the university . . . finish that degree in political science.”

“Will you move out of the house in Bel Air?”

“That would be best. I can find an apartment.”

“Will you live with Jennifer?”

“She dropped me,” he said.

“What?”

“For another guy.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. She wasn’t my type.”

“You two seemed happy.”

“We were . . . briefly.”

“What went wrong?”

“Everything.”

“You won’t move far away, will you?”

“Probably just to Westwood.”

“Oh, then we’ll practically be neighbors.”

“That’s right.”

“We’ll have lunch once a week.”

“All right,” he said.

“And dinner occasionally.”

“Without Max?” he asked.

“Just you and me.”

“Sounds lovely.”

A childlike tear rolled out of the corner of her eye.

“No need for that,” he said, wiping it away.

“I’ll miss you.”

“A brother and sister can’t live in the same house forever. It’s unnatural.”

The sound of a key in the lock made them turn to the door.

Max came in and stripped off his raincoat.

Mary went to him, kissed him on the cheek.

Putting an arm around her, refusing to acknowledge Alan, Max asked, “Feeling better?”

“Just tired,” she said.

“Everything went smoothly in spite of Oberlander,” Max said. “I got the check for expenses.”

“You always do,” she said proudly.

During that exchange Alan went to the door and opened it. “I’ll be going.”

Only minutes ago she had hoped he would leave before Max returned in order to avoid one of those tiresome quarrels. Now she felt that Alan was drifting out of her life, and she was unwilling to let go of him so soon or so easily. “Can’t you stay for another drink?”

He looked at Max and shook his head. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

Max said nothing. He didn’t move, smile, or even blink. His arm at Mary’s waist was like a stone bannister against which she rested.

She said, “We haven’t talked about what happened tonight. There’s so much to be discussed.”

“Later,” Alan said.

“You’re still just going to spend your vacation driving up the coast?”

“Yeah. I’ll spend some time in San Francisco. I know a girl there who’s invited me for Christmas. Maybe after that I’ll head for Seattle.”

“You’ll call me?”

“Sure.”

“When?”

“A week or so.”

“Christmas Day?”

“All right.”

“I’ll miss you, Alan.”

“Watch out for yourself.”

“I’ll watch out for her,” Max said.

Alan ignored him. To Mary he said, “Be careful, will you? And remember what I said.”

He went out, closing the door behind him, leaving her alone with Max.

* * *

The small, downtown
tavern was dimly lit, quite busy as late evening approached, but cozy in spite of the crowd. Max and Mary sat in a corner booth, and the bartender made two perfect vodka martinis. Later they ate roast beef sandwiches and split a bottle of red wine.

When she had finished half of her large sandwich, she pushed the rest of it aside, poured a third glass of wine for herself, and said, “I wonder if Dan Goldman’s hospital bills will be covered.”

“The town carries a comprehensive insurance policy on its cops,” Max said. “Goldman got hurt in the line of duty, so he won’t be stuck for a penny of it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I knew you’d want me to be.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I knew you’d wonder about Goldman’s hospital bills, so I asked the mayor.”

“Even if the bills are covered,” she said, “I guess he’ll lose some pay while he’s off work.”

“No,” Max said. “I asked about that, too.”

She was surprised. “What are you—a mind reader?”

“I just know you too well. You’re the softest touch there ever was.”

“I am not. I just think we should do something nice for him.”

Max put down his sandwich. “We can buy him either a new electric range or maybe a microwave oven.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I asked some of Goldman’s buddies what he needs. Seems he’s a serious amateur chef, but his kitchen leaves a lot to be desired.”

She smiled. “We’ll get him the range
and
the oven, and the best set of pots and pans—”

“Hold on a minute,” Max said. “He’s got an apartment kitchen, not a restaurant. Besides, why do you think you owe him
anything
?”

Staring into her wine, she said, “If I hadn’t come to town, he wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“Mary Bergen, the female Atlas, carrying the world on her shoulders.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “Do you remember the first conversation we ever had?”

“How could I forget? I thought you were weird.”

The night they’d met he had been uncharacteristically shy. They’d been guests at the same party. He’d seemed at ease and self-confident with everyone but her. His approach had been so self-conscious and awkward that she felt sorry for him. He had begun with one of those analyze-yourself party games.

She smiled, remembering. “You asked me what machine I would choose to be if I could be any machine in the world. Weird.”

“The last woman who answered that question said she’d be a Rolls-Royce and go to all the best places. But you said you’d be some piece of medical equipment that saves lives.”

“Was that a good answer?”

“At the time,” Max said, “it sounded phony. But now I know what you are, and I realize you were serious.”

“And what am I?”

“The kind of person who always asks for whom the bell tolls—and always cries buckets at even slightly sad movies.”

She sipped her wine. “I played the game right back at you that night, asked you what machine you’d be. Remember?”

Max nodded. He pushed his unfinished sandwich aside, picked up his wine. “I said I’d be a computer dating service so I could hook you up with me.”

She laughed girlishly. “I liked it then, and I like it now. It was a surprise finding a romantic under that big tough exterior.”

Max leaned across the table, spoke softly. “Know what machine I’d be tonight?” He pointed to the colorfully lighted jukebox at the far end of the bar. “I’d be that music machine. And no matter what buttons people pushed, I’d play love songs for you.”