The Vision by Dean Koontz

were, if not devout, at least attentive to their faith. A number of religious objects were scattered on the floor.
    A damaged crucifix lay beside the redhead’s nightstand. The wooden cross had been broken into four pieces. The aluminum image of Christ was bent at the waist, so that its crown of thorns touched its bare feet; and its head was twisted around so that Christ was looking over his shoulder.
    “This wasn’t just broken in a scuffle,” Pollini said, stooping over the remains of the icon. “The killer pulled this off the wall and spent a good bit of time demolishing it.”
    Two small religious statues had been on the redhead’s dresser. These were also broken. Some of the pieces had been ground into chalky dust; there were a few white heel prints on the carpet.
    “He sure has something against Catholics,” Pollini said. “Or against religion in general.”
    Stambaugh reluctantly followed him to the last bed.
    The fourth dead woman had been stabbed repeatedly and strangled with a rosary.
    In life she had been beautiful. Even now, naked and cold, her hair matted with blood, nose broken, one eye swollen shut, face dark with bruises, there were still traces of beauty. Alive, her blue eyes would have been as clear as mountain lakes. Washed and combed, her hair would have been thick, lustrous. She had long shapely legs, a narrow waist, a flat belly and lovely breasts.
    I’ve seen women like her, Stambaugh thought sadly. She would have walked with her shoulders back, with evident pride in herself, with joy apparent in every step.
    “She was a nurse,” Pollini said.
    Stambaugh looked at the uniform and cap that were on a chair near the bed. His legs felt weak.
    “What’s the matter?” Pollini asked.
    Stambaugh hesitated, cleared his throat. “Well, my sister’s a nurse.”
    “This isn’t your sister, is it?”
    “No. But she’s about my sister’s age.”
    “You know her? She work with your sister?”
    “Never saw her before,” Stambaugh said.
    “Then what’s wrong?”
    “This girl might have been my sister.”
    “You cracking up on me?”
    “I’m okay. I’m fine.”
    “You’ll get used to this stuff.”
    Stambaugh said nothing.
    “This one was raped,” Pollini said.
    Stambaugh swallowed hard. He was dizzy.
    “See that?” Pollini asked.
    “What?”
    “On the pubic hair. It’s semen.”
    “Oh.”
    “I wonder if he had her before or after.”
    “Before or after what?”
    “Before or after he killed her.”
    Stambaugh hurried into the master bath, dropped to his knees before the toilet, and threw up.
    When his stomach spasms passed, he knew that in the past ten minutes he had learned something important about himself. In spite of what he’d thought this morning, he
never
wanted to be like Ted Pollini.

7
    Max came back to the room at eleven-thirty, just as she finished dressing. He kissed her lightly on the mouth. He smelled of soap, shaving lotion, and the cherry-scented pipe tobacco that he favored.
    “Out for a walk?” Mary asked.
    “When did you wake up?”
    “Only an hour ago.”
    “I was up at eight-thirty.”
    “I slept
ten
hours. When I finally managed to throw myself out of bed, I felt dopey. I shouldn’t have taken the sedative on top of liquor.”
    “You needed it.”
    “I didn’t need to feel the way I felt this morning.”
    “You look wonderful now.”
    “Where have you been?”
    “At the coffee shop downstairs. Had some toast and orange juice. Read the papers.”
    “Anything that’s connected with what I saw last night?”
    “The local paper has a nice story. You and Barnes catching The Slasher. They say Goldman is already off the critical list.”
    “That’s not what I meant. The dead women in the vision. What about them?”
    “Nothing in the papers.”
    “There will be this afternoon.”
    A worried look crossed his face. He put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got to relax once in a while. You’ve got to let your head clear out now and then.