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.
