The Exorcist (33 page)

Closing of the door. Karras went back to his study of the graph, finished, then folded it up and banded it. He returned it to the nurse in Reception. Something. It was something he could use with the Bishop as an argument that Regan was not a hysteric and therefore conceivably was possessed. And yet the EEG had posed still another mystery: why no fluctuations? why none at all?

**********

He drove back toward Chris's house, but at a stop sign at the corner of Prospect and Thirty-fifth he froze behind the wheel: parked between Karras and the Jesuit residence hall was Kinderman. He was sitting alone behind the wheel with his elbow out the window, looking straight ahead.

Karras took a right before Kinderman could see him in Chris's Jaguar. Quickly he found a space, parked and locked the car. Then he walked around the corner as if heading for the residence hall. Is he watching the house? he worried. The specter of Dennings rose up again to haunt him. Was it possible that Kinderman thought Regan had...?

Easy. Slow down. Take it easy.

He walked up beside the car and leaned his head through the window on the passenger side. "Hello, Lieutenant."

The detective turned quickly and looked surprised. Then beamed. "Father Karras."

Off key, thought Karras. He noticed that his hands were feeling dampish and cold. Play it light!Don't let him know that you're worried! Play it light! "Don't you know you'll get a ticket? Weekdays, no parking between four and six."

"Never mind that,'" wheezed Kinderman. "Im talking to a priest. Every cop in this neighborhood is Catholic or passing."

"How've you been?"

"Speaking plainly, Father Karras, only so-so. Yourself?"

"Can't complain. Did you ever solve that case?"

"Which case?"

"The director."

"Oh, that one." He made a gesture of dismissal. "Don't ask. Listen, what are you doing tonight? Are you busy? I've got passes for the Crest. It's Othello."

"Who's starring?"

"Molly Picon, Desdemona, and Othello, Leo Fuchs. You're happy? This is freebies, Father Marlon Particular! This is William F. Shakespeare! Doesn't matter who's starring, who's not! Now, you're coming?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to pass. I'm pretty snowed under."

"I can see. You look terrible, you'll pardon my noticing. You're keeping late hours?"

"I always look terrible."

"Only now more than usual. Come on! Get away for one night! We'll enjoy!"

Karras decided to test; to touch a nerve. "Are you sure that's what's playing?" he asked. His eyes were probing steadily into Kinderman's. "I could have sworn there was a Chris MacNeil film at the Crest."

The detective missed a beat, and then said quickly, "No, I'm certain. Othello. It's Othello."

"What brings you to the neighborhood, incidentally?"

"You! I came only to invite you to the film!"

"Yes, it's easier to drive than to pick up a phone," said Karras softly.

The detective's eyebrows lifted in unconvincing innocence. "Your telephone was busy!" he whispered hoarsely, poising an upraised palm in midair.

The Jesuit stared at him, expressionless.

"What's wrong?" asked Kinderman after a moment.

Gravely Karras reached a hand inside the car and lifted Kinderman's eyelid. He examined the eye. "I don't know. You look terrible. You could be coming down with a case of mythomania."

"I don't know what that means," answers Kinderman as Karras withdrew his hand. "Is it serious?"

"Not fatal."

"What is it? The suspense is now driving me crazy!"

"Look it up," said Karras.

"Listen, don't be so snotty. You should render unto Caesar just a little, now and then. I'm the law. I could have you deported, you know that?"

"What for?"

"A psychiatrist shouldn't make people worry. Plus also the goyim, plainly speaking, would love it. You're a nuisance to them altogether anyway, Father. No, frankly, you embarrass them. They would love to get rid of you. Who needs it? a priest who wears sweatshirts and sneakers!"

Smiling faintly, Karras nodded. "Got to go. Take care." He tapped a hand on the window frame, twice, in farewell, and then turned and walked slowly toward the entry of the residence.

"See an analyst!" the detective called after him hoarsely. Then his warm look gave way to worry. He glanced through his windshield up at the house, then started the engine and drove up the street. Passing Karras, he honked his horn and waved.

Karras waved back; watching Kinderman round the corner of Thirty-sixth. Then he stood motionless for a while on the sidewalk, rubbing gently at his brow with a trembling hand. Could she really have done it? Could Regan have murdered Burke Dennings so horribly? With feverish eyes, he looked up at Regan's window. What in God's name is in that house? And how much longer before Kinderman demanded to see Regan? had a chance to see the Dennings personality? to hear it? How much longer before Regan would be institutionalized?

Or die?

He had to build the case for the Chancery.

He walked quickly across the street at an angle to Chris's house. He rang the doorbell.

Willie let him in.

"Missiz taking little nap now," she said.

Karras nodded. "Good. Very good." He walked by her and upstairs to Regan's bedroom. He was seeking a knowledge he must clutch by the heart.

He entered and saw Karl in a chair by the window, his arms folded, watching Regan. He was silent and present as a dense, dark wood.

Karras walked up beside the bed and looked down. The whites of the eyes like milky fog. The murmurings. Spells from some other world. Karras glanced at Karl. Then slowly he leaned over and began to unfasten one of Regan's restraining straps.

"Father, no!"

Karl rushed to the bedside and vigorously yanked back the priest's arm. "Very bad, Father! Strong! It is strong! Leave on straps!"

In the eyes there was a fear that Karras recognized as genuine, and now he knew that Regan's strength was not theory; it was a fact. She could have done it. Could have twisted Dennings' neck around. My God, Karras! Hurry! Find some evidence! Think! Hurry before...!

"Ich möchte Sie etwas fragen, Engstrom!"

With a stab of discovery and hot-surging hope, Karras jerked around his head and looked down at the bed. The demon grinned mockingly at Karl. "Tanzt Ihre Tochter gern?"

German! It had asked if Karl's daughter liked to dance! His heart pounding, Karras turned and saw that the servant's cheeks had flushed crimson; that he trembled, that his eyes glared with fury. "Karl, you'd better step outside," Karras advised him.

The Swiss shook his head, his hands squeezed into white-knuckled fists. "No, I stay!"

"You will go, please," the Jesuit said firmly. His gaze held Karl's implacably.

After a moment of dogged resistance, Karl gave way and hurried from the room.

The laughter had stopped. Karras turned back. The demon was watching him. It looked pleased. "So you're back," it croaked. "I'm surprised. I would think that embarrassment over the holy water might have discouraged you from ever returning. But then I forget that a priest has no shame."

Karras breathes shallowly and forced himself to rein his expectations, to think clearly. He knew that the language test in possession required intelligent conversation as proof that whatever was said was not traceable to buried linguistic recollections. Easy! Slow down! Remember that girl? A teen-age servant. Possessed. In delirium, she'd babbled a language that finally was recognized to be Syriac. Karras forces himself to think of the excitement it had caused, of how finally it was learned that the girl had at one time been employed in a boardinghouse where one of the lodgers was a student of theology. On the eve of examinations, he would pace in his room and walk up and down stairs while reciting his Syriac lessons aloud. And the girl had overheard them. Take it easy. Don't get burned.

"Sprechen Sie deutsch?" asked Karras warily.

"More games?"

"Sprechen Sie deutsch?" he repeated, his pulse still throbbing with that distant hope.

"Natürlich," the demon leered at him. "Mirabile dictu, wouldn't you agree?"

The Jesuit's heart leaped up. Not only German, but Latin! And in context!

"Quad nomen mihi est?" he asked quickly. What is my name?

"Karras."

And now the priest rushed on with excitement.

"Ubi sum?'" Where am I?

"In cubiculo." In a room.

"Et ubi est cubiculum?" And where is the room?

"In domo." In a house.

"Ubi est Burke Dennings?" Where is Burke Dennings?

"Mortuus." He is dead.

"Quomodo mortuus est?" How did he die?

"Inventus est capite reverso." He was found with his head turned around.

"Quis occidit eum?" Who killed him?

"Regan."

"Quomodo ea occidit illum? Dic mihi exacte!" How did she kill him? Tell me in detail!

"Ah, well, that's sufficient excitement for the moment," the demon said, grinning. "Sufficient. Sufficient altogether. Though of course it will occur to you, I suppose, that while you were asking your questions in Latin, you were mentally formulating answers in Latin." It laughed. "All unconscious, of course. Yes, whatever would we do without unconsciousness? Do you see what I'm driving at, Karras? I cannot speak Latin at all. I read your mind. I merely plucked the responses from your head!"

Karras felt an instant dismay as his certainty crumbled, felt tantalized and frustrated by the nagging doubt now planted in his brain.

The demon chuckled. "Yes, I knew that would occur to you, Karras," it croaked at him. "That is why I'm fond of you. That is why I cherish all reasonable men." Its head tilted back in a spate of laughter.

The Jesuit's mind raced rapidly, desperately; formulating questions to which there was no single answer, but rather many. But maybe I'd think of them all! he realized. Okay! Then ask a question that you don't know the answer to! He could check the answer later to see if it was correct.

He waited for the laughter to ebb before hd spoke:

"Quam profundus est imus Oceanus Indicus?" What is the depth of the Indian Ocean at its deepest point?

The demon's eyes glittered: "La plume de ma tante," it rasped.

"Responde Latine."

"Bon jour! Bonne nuit!"

"Quam---"

Karras broke off as the eyes rolled upward into their sockets and the gibberish entity appeared.

Impatient and frustrated, Karras demanded, "Let me speak to the demon again!"

No answer. Only the breathing from another shore.

"Quis es tu?'" he snapped hoarsely. Voice frayed.

Still the breathing.

"Let me speak to Burke Dennings!"

A hiccup. Breathing. A hiccup. Breathing.

"Let
 
me speak to Burke Dennings!"

The hiccuping, regular and wrenching, continued. Karras shook his head. Then he walked to a chair and sat on its edge. Hunched over. Tense. Tormented. And waiting...

Time passed. Karras drowsed. Then jerked his head up. Stay awake! With blinking, heavy lids, he looked over at Regan. No hiccuping. Silent.

Sleeping?

He walked over to the bed and looked down. Eyes closed. Heavy breathing. He reached down and felt her pulse, then stooped and carefully examined her lips. They were parched. He straightened up and waited. Then at last he left the room.

He went down to the kitchen in search of Sharon; and found her at the table eating soup and a sandwich. "Can I fix you something to eat, Father Karras?" she asked him. "You must be hungry."

""Thanks, no, I'm not," he answered. Sitting down, he reached over and picked up a pencil and pad by Sharon's typewriter. "She's been hiccuping," he told her. "Have you had any Compazine prescribed?"

"Yes, we've got some."

He was writing on the pad. "Then tonight give her half of a twenty-five-milligram suppository."

"Right."

"She's beginning to dehydrate," he continued, "so I'm switching her to intravenous feedings. First thing in the morning, call a medical-supply house and have them deliver these right away." He slid the pad across the table to Sharon. "In the Meantime, she's sleeping, so you could start her on a Sustagen feeding."

"Okay." Sharon nodded. "I will." Spooning soup, she turned the pad around and looked at the list."

Karras watched her. Then he frowned in concentration. "You're her tutor."

"Yes, that's right."

"Have you taught her any Latin?"

She was puzzled. "No, I haven't."

"Any German?"

"Only French."

"What level? La plume de ma tante?"

"Pretty much."

"But no German or Latin."

"Huh-nh, no."

"But the Engstroms, don't they sometimes speak German?"