The Face Of Fear Part 3

"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 his gla.s.s. He could drink a great deal of whiskey without becoming drunk. Likewise, when he ate he gorged himself, yet he had never been overweight. He was constantly on the prowl for pretty young women, and when he paid for s.e.x he usually went to bed with two call girls. He was not simply a middle-aged man desperately trying to prove his youth. He needed those fuels-whiskey, food and women-in large doses. For most of his life he had been fighting ennui, a deep and abiding boredom with the way the world was. Pacing energetically, sipping his bourbon, he said, "A green-eyed woman named Edna.... He's right about that. We'll be reading it in the papers tomorrow."

"You can't know know-"

"If you'd been sitting there beside him, Paul, you'd have no doubts about it."

"But wasn't it odd that he had his 'vision' just when you about had him nailed?"

"Nailed for what?" Prine asked.

"Well ... for taking money. For-"

"If he's ever been paid more than his expenses for that kind of work, I've no proof of it," Prine said.

Perplexed, Stevenson said, "Then why did you go after him?"

"I wanted to break him. Reduce him to a babbling, defenseless fool." Prine smiled.

"But if he wasn't guilty-"

"He's guilty of other things."

"Like what?"

"You'll know eventually."

Stevenson sighed. "You enjoy humiliating them right there on television."

"Of course."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Is it the sense of power?"

"Not at all," Prine said. "I enjoy exposing them as fools because they are are fools. Most men are fools. Politicians, clergymen, poets, philosophers, businessmen, generals and admirals. Gradually, I'm exposing the leaders in every profession. I'm going to show the ignorant ma.s.ses that their leaders are as dull-witted as they are." He swallowed some bourbon. When he spoke again, his voice was hard. "Maybe someday all those fools will go at one another's throats and leave the world to the few of us who can appreciate it." fools. Most men are fools. Politicians, clergymen, poets, philosophers, businessmen, generals and admirals. Gradually, I'm exposing the leaders in every profession. I'm going to show the ignorant ma.s.ses that their leaders are as dull-witted as they are." He swallowed some bourbon. When he spoke again, his voice was hard. "Maybe someday all those fools will go at one another's throats and leave the world to the few of us who can appreciate it."

"What are you saying?"

"I spoke English, didn't I?"

"You sound so-bitter."

"I've got a right to."

"You? After your success?"

"Aren't you drinking, Paul?"

"No. Tony, I don't understand-"

"I think you should have a drink."

Stevenson knew when he was expected to change the subject. "I really don't want a drink."

"Have you ever gotten blind drunk?"

"No. I'm not much of a drinker."

"Ever gone to bed with two girls at once?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"You don't reach out for life like you should," Prine said. "You don't experience. experience. You don't get loose enough often enough. That's the only thing wrong with you, Paul-other than your socks." You don't get loose enough often enough. That's the only thing wrong with you, Paul-other than your socks."

Stevenson looked at his feet. "What's wrong with my socks?"

Prine went to the windows. He didn't look at the bright city beyond but stared instead at his reflection in the gla.s.s. He grinned at himself. He felt marvelous. Better than he had felt in weeks, and all thanks to Harris. The clairvoyant had brought some excitement and danger into his life, new purpose and interest. Although Graham Harris didn't know it as yet, he was the most important target of Prine's career. We'll destroy him, Prine thought happily; wipe him out, finish him off for good. He turned to Stevenson. "Are you certain about the phone? I wipe him out, finish him off for good. He turned to Stevenson. "Are you certain about the phone? I must must have gotten a call." have gotten a call."

"No. Nothing."

"Maybe you stepped out of here for a minute."

"Tony, I'm I'm not a fool. Give me some credit. I was here all the time, and the private line never rang." not a fool. Give me some credit. I was here all the time, and the private line never rang."

Prine finished his second bourbon. It burned his throat. A welcome and pleasant heat rose in him. "Why don't you have a drink with me?"

Stevenson stood and stretched. "No. I've really got to go."

Prine went to the bar.

"You're drinking those awfully fast, Tony."

"Celebrating," Prine said as he added ice and bourbon to his gla.s.s.

"Celebrating what?"

"The downfall of another fool."

4.

Connie Davis was waiting for Graham when he came home to the townhouse they shared in Greenwich Village. She took his coat and hung it in the closet.

She was pretty. Thirty-four years old. Slender. Brunette. Gray eyes. Proud nose. Wide mouth. s.e.xy.

She owned a prosperous hole-in-the-wall antique shop on Tenth Street. In business she was every bit as tough as she was pretty.

For the past eighteen months she and Graham had lived together. Their relationship was the closest thing to genuine romance that either of them had ever known.

However, it was more than a romance. She was his doctor and nurse as well as his lover. Since the accident five years ago, he had been losing faith in himself. His self-respect faded year by year. She was here to help him, to heal him. She was not certain that he understood this; but she saw it as the most important task of her life. but she saw it as the most important task of her life.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "It's two-thirty."

"I had to think. I went walking. You saw the program?"

"We'll talk about it. But first you need to get warm."

"Do I ever. It must be twenty below out there."

"Go into the study and sit down. Relax," she said. "I've got a fire going. I'll bring you a drink."

"Brandy?"

"What else on a night like this?"

"You're nearly perfect."

"Nearly?"

"Mustn't give you a swelled head."

"I'm too perfect to be immodest."

He laughed.

She turned from him and went to the bar at the far end of the living room.

With a sixth sense of her own, she knew that he stared after her for a moment before he left the room. Good. Just as planned. He was meant to watch. She was wearing a clinging white sweater and tight blue jeans that accentuated her waistline and her bottom. If he hadn't stared after her, she would have been disappointed. After what he had been through tonight, he needed more than a seat in front of the fireplace and a snifter of brandy. He needed her. Touching. Kissing. Making love. And she was willing-more than willing, delighted-to provide it.

She was not merely plunging into her Earth Mother role again. Unquestionably, she did have a tendency to overwhelm her men, to be so excessively affectionate and understanding and dependable that she smothered their self-reliance. However, this affair was different from all the others. She wanted to depend on Graham as much as he depended on her. This time she wanted to receive as much as she gave. He was the first man to whom she had ever responded in quite that fashion. She wanted to make love to him in order to soothe him, but she wanted to soothe herself as well. She had always had strong, healthy s.e.xual drives, but Graham had put a new and sharper edge on her desire.

She carried the gla.s.ses of Remy Martin into the den. She sat beside him on the sofa.

After a moment of silence, still staring at the fire, he said, "Why the interrogation? What was he after?"

"Prine?"

"Who else?"

"You've seen his show often enough. You know what he's like."

"But he usually has a reason for his attacks. And he's always got proof of what he says."

"Well, at least you shut him up with your visions of the tenth murder."

"They were real," he said.

"I know they were."

"It was so vivid... as if I were right there."

"Was it bad? b.l.o.o.d.y?"

"One of the worst. I saw him ... ram the knife into her throat and then twist it." He quickly sipped his brandy.

She leaned against him, kissed him on the cheek.

"I can't figure this Butcher," he said worriedly. "I've never had so much trouble getting an image of a killer."

"You sensed his name."

"Maybe. Dwight.... I'm not entirely sure."

"You've given the police a fairly good description of him."

"But I can't pick up much more about him," he said. "When the visions come and I try to force an image of this man, this Butcher, to the center of them, all I get are waves of ... evil. Not illness, not an impression of a sick mind. Just overwhelming evil. I don't know how to explain this-but the Butcher isn't a lunatic. At least not in the cla.s.sical sense. He doesn't kill in a maniacal frenzy."

"He's chopped up nine innocent women," Connie said. "Ten "Ten if you count the one they haven't found yet. He cuts off their ears and fingers sometimes. Sometimes he disembowels them. And you say he isn't if you count the one they haven't found yet. He cuts off their ears and fingers sometimes. Sometimes he disembowels them. And you say he isn't crazy?" crazy?"