"I know you publish two expensive magazines about mountain climbing,"
Prine said. "But they do have small circulations. As for the trust
fund.... I hadn't heard about that."
He's lying, Graham thought. He prepares meticulously for these shows.
When I walked into this studio, he knew almost as much about me as I
know about myself. So why is he lying? What will he gain by
slandering me? What in hell is happening here?
The woman has green eyes, clear and beautiful green eyes, but there is
terror in them now, and she stares up at the blade, the shining blade,
and she sucks in her breath to scream, and the blade starts its
downward,arc...
The images passed as suddenly as they had come, leaving him badly
shaken. He knew that some clairvoyantincluding the two most famous,
Peter Hurkos and his fellow Dutchman Gerard Croiset-could receive,
interpret and catalogue their psychic perceptions while holding an
uninterrupted conversation. Only rarely could Graham manage that.
Usually he was distracted by the visions.
Occasionally, when they had to do with a particularly violent murder, he
was so overwhelmed by them that he blanked out reality altogether.
The visions were more than an intellectual experience; they affected him
emotionally and spiritually as well. For a moment, seeing the
green-eyed woman behind his eyes, he had not been fully aware of the
world around him: the television audience, the studio, the cameras,
Prine. He was trembling.
"Mr. Harris?" Prine said.
He looked up from his hands.
"I asked you a question," Prine said.
,I'm sorry. I didn't hear it."
As the blood exploded from her throat and her cream eyes he watched it
run down, down with a stream down between her bare breasts, and he
nearly laugh mania tber scowls nor guns, and he does not ally but goes
about the killing in a workmanlike manner, as if this is his profession,
as if this is just a job, as if this is no different froma man selling
cars for a living or washing windows, Merely a tluk to be it rite a e
lood nishedstaband pand ar ndbringth b welling up in Pools ... and then
stand up and go home and sleep contentedly, satisfied with a job well
done.
Graham was shaking uncontrollably. His face was greasy with
perspiration, yet he felt as if he were sitting in a cool draft. His
own power scared him. Ever since the accident in which he had nearly
died, he had been frightened of many things; but these inexplicable
visions were the ultimate fear.
"Mr. Harris?" Prine said. "Are you feeling all right?"
The second wave of impressions had lasted only three or four seconds,
although it had seemed much longer than that. During that time he was
totally unaware of the studio and the cameras.
"He's doing it again," Graham said softly. "Right now, this minute."
Frowning, Prine said, '."Who? Doing what?"
"Killing."
"You're talking about-the Butcher?"
Graham nodded and licked his lips. His throat was so dry that it hurt
him a bit to speak. There was an unpleasant metallic taste in his
mouth.
Prine was excited. He faced one of the cameras and said, "Remember, New
York, you heard it and saw it here first." He turned back to Graham and
said, "Who is he killing?" He was suddenly charged with ghoulish
.Inticipation.
"A woman. Green eyes. Pretty."
"What's her name?"
Perspiration trickled into the corners of Graham's eyes and stung them.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand-and wondered how foolish
he looked to the hundreds of thousands who were watching.
"Can you tell me her name?" Prine asked.
Edna ... pretty littleEdna ... poor little Edna....
"Edna," Graham said.
"Last name?"
"I don't ... can't see it!"
"Try. You must try."
"Maybe ... dancer."
"Edna Dancer?"
"I don't . maybe not... maybe the dancer part isn't right ...
maybe just... just the Edna "Reach for it"l Prine said. Try harder.
Can't you force it out?"
"No use!" His name "Daryl ... no ... Dwight!"
"Like Dwight Eisenhower?"
"I'm not certain that it's actually his first name ... Or even first or
Last... but people have Called him that ...
Dwight ... yes... and he's answered to it!" ,Incredible," prine said,
apparently having forgotten that he had been in the process of
destroying his guest's reputation. "Do you see his other name, first or
last?" -No. But I sense ... the police already know him ...
somehow ... and they ... they know him well."
,You mean that he's already a suspect?" Prine asked.
The cameras seemed to move in closer.
Graham wished they would go away. He wished prine would go away.
He should never have come here tonight. Most of all, he wished his
clairvoyant powers would go away, vanish back into that locked box deep
within his mind from which they had been sprung by the accident.
"I don't know," Graham said. "I suppose ...
he must be a suspect. But whatever the situation ... they know him.
They-" He shuddered.
"What is it?" Prine asked.
"Edna ...
"Yes?"
"She's dead now."
Graham felt as if he were going to be sick.
"Where did it happen?" Prine asked.
Graham sank back in his armchair, struggling to keep control of himself.
He felt almost as if he were Edna, as if the knife had been plunged into
him.
"Where was she murdered?" Prine asked again.
"In her apartment."
"What's the address?"
"I don't know."
"But if the police could get there in time-"
"I've lost it," Graham said. "It's gone. I'm sorry. It's all gone for
now."
He felt cold and hollow inside.
Shortly before two o'clock in the morning, after a conference on the set
with the director, Anthony Prine left the studio and went down the hall
to his suite, which served him as office, dressing room and home away
from home. Inside, he walked straight to the bar, put two ice cubes in
a glass and reached for the bottle of bourbon.
His manager and business partner, Paul Stevenson, was sitting on the
couch. He wore expensive, welltailored clothes. Prine was a smart
dresser, and he appreciated that quality in other men. The problem was
that Stevenson always destroyed the effect of his outfit with one
bizarre accessory. Tonight he was wearing a Seville Row suit-a
hard-finished gray worsted with a midnight-blue That silk lining-a
hand-sewn light blue shirt, maroon tie, black alligator shoes. And
bright pink socks-with green clocks on the sides. Like cockroaches on a
wedding cake.
For two reasons, Stevenson was a perfect business partner: he had money,
and he did what he was told to do.
Prine had great respect for the dollar. And he did not believe that
anyone lived who had the experience, the intelligence or the right to
tell him what to do.
"Were there any calls for me on the private line?"
Prine asked.
"No calls."
"You're certain?"
"Of course."
"You were here all the time?"
"Watching the show on that set," Stevenson said.
"I was expecting a call."
"I'm sorry. There wasn't one."
Prine scowled.
"Terrific show," Stevenson said.
"Just the first thirty minutes. Following Harris, the other guests
looked duller than they were. Did we get viewer calls?"
"Over a hundred, all favorable. Do you believe he really saw the
killing take place?"
"You heard the details he gave. The color of her eyes. Her name.
He convinced me."
"Until the next victim's found, you don't know that his details were
accurate."
"They were accurate," Prine said. He finished his bourbon and refilled