The ring of policemen watched as Cohen opened his shaking fist. A brush dropped out first, making a dull sound on the linoleum floor. His palm was covered with glistening, beige powder and shards of bone-colored plastic. Blood seeped, making dirty rivulets in his hand.

He hurried away from the table and toward the bathroom.

"Cohen!" Tunny shouted behind him. "Cohen! What about..."

Cohen slammed open the bathroom door. The hydraulic mechanism caught it and, careful as a salesman in an antique shop, let it ease closed, muting the end of Tunny's question.

"... your MasterCard?"

Beneath the tap the water ran red and beige. It smelled of perfume and blood. Cohen was pressing paper towels on his wounds when the door opened. He glanced up, expecting to see an apologetic Tunny. It was Schindler. The doctor gave Cohen's bleeding hand a curious glance and then leaned up against the dirty tile wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Psychiatrists should be careful of body language, Larry," Cohen warned.

Schindler shrugged, but didn't change his posture. "Don't want the MasterCard back?"

"Tell Tunny he can shove it up his a.s.s."

Schindler laughed. "Would that be an act that was emotionally charged?"

After a pause, Cohen laughed, too.

"Seriously," Schindler said and then stopped. The psychiatrist had a habit of leaving dangling lead-ins behind him.

When Cohen was certain that Schindler was not going to go on, he said, "Tell Tunny to put the card back in my wallet."

"You shouldn't leave a wallet unattended. This is a police station. There are all sorts of crooks here." After a perfectly timed comic pause, he added, "Some of them wear uniforms so you can spot them, but what about the others?"

Cohen didn't bother to laugh. His hand was throbbing. When he looked up at the mirror, the darkness returned, a dead spot in the corner of his eye. As it vanished, he could see Schindler watching him.

"How's the vision problem?" Schindler asked.

Turning off the water, Cohen threw the bloodied paper towels in the trash and yanked some fresh from the dispenser. Sometimes Cohen felt the psychiatrist could read his mind. Maybe Schindler was getting a little unlicensed Psychamine on the side. "The same."

"Well."

Cohen watched spots of red erupt from the nubbly surface of the towels.

"Maybe you should cut the Psychamine, Nathan."

"They've done neurological tests. n.o.body can find anything wrong."

"The brain's a bunch of weird s.h.i.t, son. We don't even know what the drug does."

The towels had soaked through. Cohen threw them away and stuck his bleeding hand in the sink, hearing the drip-drip as his blood hit the porcelain.

"Want me to bandage it?"

Cohen shook his head. "It'll be all right in a minute."

"You're working too hard."

"I read Forbes so I understand I'm a workaholic. This should make you happy, not upset."

"So what is it with you?" Schindler asked. "Power? Knowledge? What? Why knock yourself out, Cohen?"

"Why do you think I do it?"

"A power trip. You're irredeemably awkward in social encounters, so you get a rush out of your job. Right? Am I right?"

"I'm the best psychic you've got."

"Only because you've sublimated all your s.e.xual desires into it. Tell me true. You think it's the Psychamine that's causing your blackouts, don't you."

Cohen applied more towels to his wounds. "They're not blackouts per se. Besides, what am I going to do, Larry? Work in an office or what? I can't type. I'm not trained for anything else."

"Poor little mind reader," Schindler said in a voice like sugared vinegar. "Your perp d.i.c.kerson's the one. They're calling in the verifying psychics now. If they point him out, the cops are going to pick him up."

"Who's on Veri-Psi?"

"Durso and Ingram."

"They're good," Cohen said in the easy tone of one who knows he's better.

"Stop taking the Psychamine."

Cohen studied his reflection. A shy, mousey man stared back. Under the fluorescent lights, the face in the mirror looked greenish, baggy and used up. "I can't," he whispered.

"Have you been counting? Well, I have. Fifteen years, Cohen. You've been taking it fifteen years, longer than anybody on record. What if one of the long-term effects is blindness?"

Cohen glanced down at his hand. Blood had made red spiderwebs on his palm and left rusty threads on the white porcelain. "It's not like blindness."

"Then what's it like?"

"The darkness isn't part of my eye. It's inside my brain. It's a suction monster, a f.u.c.king Hoover vacuum cleaner of the soul."

Cohen glanced over his shoulder. Schindler's easy, friendly manner had disappeared, leaving only the psychiatrist part behind.

"You know I'm clairvoyant," Cohen said.

For a moment, Schindler froze. Then he shook his head vehemently as if the words were a wasp he could shoo out of the room. "Come on. Cohen. Come on. Don't get absurd on me, okay? The courts recognize telepathy and psychometry, not clairvoyance. Seeing into the future leaves you with an ungovernable paradox."

"I'm clairvoyant," Cohen said. "Consider for a moment what that says about time. Think what it says about s.p.a.ce."

Schindler frowned. "I'm listening." Yes, Schindler was listening. He wasn't happy, he wasn't believing; but he was listening.

"I've bent time, Larry," he told him quietly. "The past, the future, they're all one thing. And the place where time is bent is a place where parts of me are so crushed, so dense, that it lets no light escape. One day, Larry, one day, I'm going to fall into that f.u.c.ker and not come out, understand? And I'm scared s.h.i.tless because I don't know what's inside it."

Schindler stayed in his dim corner, leaning up against the wall, his arms crossed, his posture the same as when he'd come in the door. His face, though, had suddenly gone expressionless. "So that's what you think."

"That's what I imagine."

"Okay. Granted."

"I'm afraid of it. I'm afraid of what I saw in the envelope. I'm afraid of the future I saw in my G.o.dd.a.m.ned MasterCard."

"Why did you think that was clairvoyance in particular, Cohen? Did some little sign pop up and tell you future event?"

Cohen glanced at the wall. He would have glanced at anything, anything, to keep from facing Schindler's bland, clinical scrutiny.

"You see what people are. You can see it more clearly than I can. Truth. That's what you see," Schindler said softly. "Maybe the only thing contained in that card was your own pathological loneliness."

Staring into the wall, Cohen felt the hot, gravid pressure of tears behind his eyes. Pathologically lonely? he thought. Was that the way everyone saw him? For an uncomfortable moment, his mind fondled the idea as though it were an interesting but somewhat suspect find that had washed up on a beach. "I'm not like that."

"Oh, Nathan," Schindler said tiredly. "Know thyself, okay?"

"f.u.c.k you!" Cohen shouted.

Schindler stood straighter, unfolded his arms.

"Listen," Cohen told him, firmly meeting the psychiatrist's gaze in the mirror. "I know the difference. There's a difference in the feel. What hit me was clairvoyance, only I couldn't see all the details. In spite of the Psychamine, you only see parts, and sometimes those parts don't make sense. What if the vision was telling me I'm going to crawl into that dark place, Larry? What if it was telling me I'll die there?"

"I don't think the black spots have a physical basis. If you're clairvoyant what you saw may be insanity. That's a type of darkness, too."

Cohen remembered the ones who had entered the program with him. Frazier had been a careful man, one who carried his umbrella when there was only a twenty percent chance of rain. He'd opened his wrists longitudinally in a tub of warm water; and then he'd opened the back of his knees, too.

Rowe was making baskets at an Iowa farm for the strangely inspired. And Karpovich, ah, Karpovich. He'd ended his new career as an alcoholic by jumping in front of a train.

"There was something wrong with us to begin with, right, Larry? There's something missing in people who are born psychic. Guts, maybe. Maybe that last, tough, protective layer of skin."

"If the Psychamine just augments what you had to begin with, maybe it augments the cowardice and the hurt, too," Schindler said. "You should try giving it up."

"I can't quit," Cohen said. "You're absolutely right about me. I'm obsessive/compulsive and when I do an investigation I get a hard-on like you wouldn't believe." Cohen held a new wad of paper toweling to his palm, but the wounds were already closing. The paper came away with just a few dots of red.

"Spoken like someone in the throes of self-destruction."

"It's my G.o.dd.a.m.ned life, Schindler."

"No," Schindler said. "No, it's not. Just like the cops' lives aren't theirs, either. Medical leave, Cohen. Open ended, understand? When you're ready to come back, we'll do a physical and mental on you, okay?"

Cohen's stomach went cold. "Hey. The obsessive/compulsive thing... all that talk about clairvoyance... it was a joke. You don't have a sense of humor, or what?"

But Schindler wasn't even looking at him. "Take some rest. Go to Bermuda."

A small, weak laugh escaped Cohen's lips. "Listen, we're friends, aren't we? I mean, that's what all this talk was about, you know? Something between friends?"

"I'm a shrink first."

Hatred grabbed Cohen by the neck and cut off his air. "Well, tell Lila I'm sorry about her compact."

"Okay."

"And get the h.e.l.l out."

After a moment, Schindler did. The door closed itself carefully behind him.

Cohen watched him go. He watched until the dark came back, a spot so black, so weighty, that not even thought moved there.

When it had gone, he wiped the last remnants of blood from his hand and left the bathroom. A few policemen glanced up as he walked to his desk.

Tunny came over. "I'm sorry..."

"Shut up," Cohen whispered without looking at him. He grabbed his jacket, put it on, and walked out into the chill night. Durso and Ingram were on their way in. He stopped them.

"We shouldn't be talking," Durso said. The verifying psychic was a little man with a little man's slavishness to convention.

"Wait a minute. Just please wait a minute." Cohen could hear his voice shake. Tonight, when he went home, he'd be alone and lost in the darkness. Tomorrow, when he woke up, he'd be alone and lost with no place to go. "Are you clairvoyant?"

Durso drew himself up in his coat, his watery hazel eyes suspicious. Ingram pulled on an edge of his mustache.

"It's important. I have to know. Do you sometimes see the future?"

Ingram's chocolate face blended in with the night, but Cohen could see his eyes shift nervously from Durso to Cohen and back.

"The courts recognize telepathy..." Durso began.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it! Don't you think I've memorized that by now? They don't recognize clairvoyance because it doesn't make sense. Don't you see? If you really can see the future, then maybe there's a place where tomorrow's already occurred."

Durso snapped, "That's right. It doesn't make sense. Hence the 'ungovernable paradox." " He started to walk past, but Cohen grabbed him by the arm.

"Do you see darkness sometimes? I have to know. A dark thing just at the corner of your eye like something standing between you and the light. Do you ever see something like that?"

Durso was trying to get away. His face was a study in repulsed shock.

Ingram laid a gloved hand on Cohen's shoulder. "You need to go home, man. Understand?" he said with soft concern. "Get some sleep, okay?"

"Don't patronize me," Cohen snapped. "Listen, Ingram, maybe one day you'll see what I see. Maybe Frazier saw it. Maybe that's what sucked Karpovich out in front of the train..."

Ingram made quieting-the-baby sounds.

"Please," Cohen whimpered. He was crying. "Tell me. Don't you ever see it?"

"No, man. I don't."

With a jerk, Cohen pulled away and started in a fast walk down the street. After a few paces, he glanced behind. Ingram and Durso were staring at him. The pity on their faces caught him unawares. It was as much of a shock as a chance glimpse of his own reflection in a gla.s.s doorway. Maybe, he thought, Schindler was right. Cohen wondered if he peeked too quickly into a mirror he would see a pathologically lonely man staring back.

After a few blocks, he slowed. He'd go home, turn on the TV, maybe, and the darkness would be there, slicing through the image on NBC. And tomorrow he'd wake up, read the paper and try to remember not to get dressed for work. Sometime in the coming week, Schindler would send him a ticket to someplace warm, compliments of the department, and he'd go and look out into the rhythmic blue of the Caribbean and see a black, timeless ma.s.s standing between him and the waves.

In his brain, minutes and hours curled in stasis, a spot of dead, heavy air.