"I've seen five of them."

"And handled the clothes of the victims?"

"Some of them."

Prine slid forward on his chair, leaning conspiratorially toward Harris. "What can you tell us about the Butcher?"

"Not much," Graham Harris said, and he frowned, because that bothered him. He was having more trouble than usual on this case. "He's a big man. Good-looking. Young. Very sure of himself and sure of the-"

"How much are you being paid?" Prine asked.

Confused by the question, Graham said, "For what?"

"For helping the police," Prine said.

"I'm not being paid anything."

"You're just doing it for the good of society, then?"

"I'm doing it because I have have to. I'm compelled-" to. I'm compelled-"

"How much did the Havelocks pay you?"

He realized that Prine had been leaning toward him not conspiratorially but hungrily, like a beast preparing to pounce on its prey. His hunch had been correct: that son of a b.i.t.c.h had chosen him for the nightly trouncing. But why? why?

"Mr. Harris?"

Graham had temporarily forgotten the cameras (and the audience beyond), but now he was uncomfortably aware of them again. "The Havelocks didn't pay me anything."

"You're certain of that?"

"Of course I'm certain."

"You are are sometimes paid for your services, aren't you?" sometimes paid for your services, aren't you?"

"No. I earn my living by-"

"Sixteen months ago a young boy was brutally murdered in the Midwest. We'll skip the name of the town to spare the family publicity. His mother asked for your a.s.sistance in uncovering the killer. I spoke with her yesterday. She says that she paid you slightly more than one thousand dollars-and then you failed to find the killer."

What the h.e.l.l is he trying to prove? Graham wondered. He knows I'm far from poor. He knows I don't need to run halfway across the country to hustle a few hundred dollars. "First of all, I did did tell them who killed the child and where they could look for the evidence that would make their case. But both the police and this woman refused to follow up on the lead that I gave them." tell them who killed the child and where they could look for the evidence that would make their case. But both the police and this woman refused to follow up on the lead that I gave them."

"Why would they refuse?"

"Because the man I fingered for the murder is the son of a wealthy family in that town. He's also a respected clergyman in his own right, and the stepfather of the dead boy."

Prine's expression was proof enough that the woman had not told him this part of it. Nevertheless, he pressed the attack. That was uncharacteristic of him. Ordinarily, he was vicious with a guest only when he knew that he had evidence enough to ruin him. He was not entirely an admirable man; however, he usually didn't make mistakes. "But she did pay you the thousand dollars?" however, he usually didn't make mistakes. "But she did pay you the thousand dollars?"

"That was for my expenses. Airline fares, car rentals, meals and lodging while I was working on the case."

Smiling as if he had made his point, Prine said, "Do they usually pay your expenses?"

"Naturally. I can't be expected to travel all about, spending thousands of my own money for-"

"Did the Havelocks pay you?"

"My expenses."

"But didn't you just tell us a minute ago that the Havelocks didn't pay you anything?"

Exasperated, Graham said, "They didn't pay me. They just reimbursed me for-"

"Mr. Harris, forgive me if I seem to be accusing you of something you haven't done. But it occurs to me that a man with your reputation for performing psychic miracles could easily take many thousands of dollars a year from the gullible. If he was unscrupulous, that is."

"Look here-"

"When you're on one of these investigations, do you ever pad your expenses?" Prine asked.

Graham was stunned. He slid forward on his chair, leaned toward Prine. "That's outrageous!" He realized that Prine had settled back and crossed his legs the instant that he got a strong reaction. That was a clever maneuver that made Graham's response seem exaggerated. He suddenly felt as if he he were the predator. He supposed that his justifiable indignation looked like the desperate and weak self-defense of a guilty man. "You know I don't need the money. I'm not a millionaire, but I'm well fixed. My father was a successful publisher. I received a substantial trust fund. Furthermore, I've got a moderately successful business of my own." were the predator. He supposed that his justifiable indignation looked like the desperate and weak self-defense of a guilty man. "You know I don't need the money. I'm not a millionaire, but I'm well fixed. My father was a successful publisher. I received a substantial trust fund. Furthermore, I've got a moderately successful business of my own."

"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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed as suddenly as they had come, leaving him badly shaken. He knew that some clairvoyants-including 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. 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 explodes from her throat and her scream dies unborn, he pulls the blade free and raises it high and brings it down, down again, with all of his strength, down between her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and he neither scowls nor grins, and he does not laugh maniacally, 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 from a man selling cars for a living or washing windows, merely a task to be finished, stab and rip and tear and bring the blood 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. 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 antic.i.p.ation.

"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 little Edna... 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," Prine said. "Try harder. Can't you force it out?"

"No use."

"His name?" name?"

"Daryl... no ... Dwight."

"Like Dwight Eisenhower?"

"I'm not certain that'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 lockbox, 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. 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.

3.

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 gla.s.s and reached for the bottle of bourbon.

His manager and business partner, Paul Stevenson, was sitting on the couch. He wore expensive, well-tailored 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 Thai silk lining-a hand-sewn light blue shirt, maroon tie, black alligator shoes. And bright pink socks-with green clocks on the sides. Like c.o.c.kroaches 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 him what to do. what to do.

"Were there any calls for me on the private line?" Prine asked.

"No calls."