Face of Fear Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.
    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 anticipation.
    “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?”
    “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.
    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 glass 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