The Vision [antikvár]

1"Gloves of blood."The woman raised her hands and stared at them, stared through them.Her voice was soft but tense. "Blood on his hands." Her own hands were clean and pale.Her husband leaned forward from the back seat of the patrol car. "Mary?"She didn't respond."Mary, can you hear me?""Yes.""Whose blood do you see?""I'm not sure.""The victim's blood?"Dean R. Koontz"No. In fact . . . it's his own.""The killer's?""Yes.""He has his own blood on his hands?""That's right," she said."He's hurt himself?""But not badly.""How?""I don't know.""Try to get inside of him.""I am already.""Get deeper.""I'm not a mind reader.""I know that, darling. But you're the next best thing."The perspiration on Mary Bergen's face was like the ceramic glaze on the plaster countenance of an altar saint. Her smooth skin gleamed in the green light from the instrument panel. Her dark eyes also shone, but they were unfocused, blank.Suddenly she leaned forward and shuddered.In the driver's seat Chief of Police Harley Barnes shifted uneasily. He flexed his big hands on the steering wheel."He's sucking the wound," she said. "Sucking his own blood."After thirty years of police work, Barnes didn't expect to be surprised or frightened. Now, in a single evening, he had been surprised more than