Galen’s slow, close-lipped smile spread across his face.
“The first sensible question anyone has asked yet,” he said. “The answer is complex, however. I suggest we adjourn.”
“Where?” Michael asked.
“My house, naturally. I want to have a look at that arm. And I agree that, for whatever reason, this atmosphere is unhealthy for both of you. Pack a bag, Michael, while I untie Mrs. Randolph.”
Michael turned to obey, but he was diverted by the spectacle of Galen, every professional hair in place, calmly untying the knots that bound Linda to the bed. Glancing up, Galen met his eyes and smiled affably.
“This is not, by any means, my most unusual experience,” he said, and turned his attention back to his work.
Chapter 11
I
“NOT SELF-INFLICTED,” GALEN SAID.
“Thanks a lot.”
Michael rolled down his sleeve. Linda knew he had been trying not to wince; Galen’s poking and probing, which appeared to be prompted more by a spirit of scientific inquiry than concern for his patient’s pains, must have hurt more than the original dressing of the wound.
Galen leaned back in his chair.
“Unless you found a cooperative dog,” he qualified.
Linda bit back the comment that was on the tip of her tongue. She did not have Michael’s lifelong experience with the older man, which had apparently given him a childlike faith in the great father figure. She had welcomed Galen’s appearance for two reasons: first as an ally, who would help guard Michael from herself, and, second, as the key to the final door through which she meant to pass when all other means were exhausted. But although she herself had anticipated and considered every one of Galen’s rational objections, she found them irritating coming from him.
Glancing around the doctor’s study, she thought she would like the man if she weren’t prejudiced against his profession. The furnishings of the room were so luxurious that they were inobtrusive; every object was so exactly right, in function and design, that it blended into a perfect whole. The exquisite marble head on the bookshelf looked like one she had seen in an Athens museum, but it was not a copy. The rugs were modern Scandinavian designs; their abstract whirls of color went equally well with the classical sculpture, the Monet over the fireplace, and the geometric lines of the rosewood tables and desk. Heavy hangings, deep chairs, beautiful ornaments-they made up a room of soft lights and warm, bright coloring, as soothing to the nerves as it was stimulating to the senses. Only one object-Linda’s eyes went to the soft couch, piled with cushions; and Galen, who saw everything, smiled at her.
“I use it more than my patients do,” he said. “Most of them prefer to confront me, face to face.”
“I didn’t think you ever slept,” Michael said.
“Catnaps. Like all the other great men of history. Hence the couch, in here.”
He had a beautiful speaking voice, as modulated and controlled as an actor’s. And used for the same purpose, Linda thought. Fighting the influence of the voice and the room, she returned to the attack.
“You don’t honestly believe we went looking for a dog and provoked him into attacking Michael?”
“It does seem unlikely,” Galen admitted.
“But not impossible?”
“Trite as it may sound…”
“Nothing is impossible. Damn you,” Linda said.
Galen’s fixed smile widened, very slightly, and Linda flung herself out of her chair and began to pace. That was one of the reasons why she hated psychiatrists; she had the feeling that her every action was not only anticipated, but provoked.
“However,” Galen went on calmly, “unless the evidence to the contrary is strong, I generally prefer the simplest hypothesis.”
“A real dog,” Michael said.
“A real dog,” Galen agreed.
Linda turned, to find both of them watching her. For a moment, the open amusement in Galen’s face almost provoked an outburst; then she saw the strained pallor of Michael’s face, and she dropped into her chair.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You asked me a question,” Galen said. “About the letters. What did you make of them, Michael?”
“Not much. I was hoping you’d have more to say on the subject.”
“I do. But I want your interpretation first.”
“The thing that struck me was the Jonah effect,” Michael said slowly. “The doom and destruction that hit the people closest to Randolph. That, and my father’s inexplicable dislike of him. It was Linda who told me he must have been the head of the witchcraft cult, and thus directly responsible for the death of that boy-”
“Green. The author of The Smoke of Her Burning.” As they both sat speechless, Galen turned to Linda. “Didn’t you suspect, Mrs. Randolph, that your husband never wrote that book?”
“I-I don’t know. I never-” Linda rallied. “I guess I did. But not for a long time, and it was never more than a suspicion. I loved the author of that book before I ever met Gordon; I think it was one of the reasons why I loved him. The external brilliance, the polish-Gordon could have done that. What he lacked, what he never could have produced, was the soul of the book-the compassion, the tenderness.”
Galen nodded. He turned back to Michael.
“That was what your father suspected, knowing both students as he did. That was what he told me, privately. Of course he could prove nothing. Green had told him he was working on a book, but had never showed him any of the manuscript. He said he wanted to have it complete before he submitted it for criticism.”
“I should have known,” Michael said, flushed with self-contempt. “I call myself a writer… But there were other things. The campaign speeches, even Kwame’s songs…For a while I played with the idea that he had stolen them from Gordon.”
“They were not written by the same man; but they were written by the same kind of man,” Galen said. “Despite my reluctance to accept your theories of diabolic possession, I do believe in what you might call mental vampirism-a spiritual blood sucking, a leechlike drain of the intelligence and emotions of others. You’ve met people, I’m sure, who left you feeling drained and depressed after a few hours’ conversation. Usually this is an unconscious demand, but Randolph is quite conscious of what he’s doing. Make no mistake, he was never guilty of ordinary plagiarism. His victims gave him what he wanted, half convinced themselves that it was his work.
“Eventually, however, the vampire goes too far, and destroys the source from which it draws its vitality. It is symptomatic, not only of Randolph’s effect on others, but of their personality weaknesses, that they should resort to suicide, or some other form of escape, rather than attacking Randolph. For it was not only intellectual brilliance he sought, it was brilliance coupled with a sense of insecurity. You might say, if you were mystically inclined-which I am not-that Randolph was drawn, by a kind of spiritual chemistry, to people of this sort, just as they were attracted to him. The stronger souls-pardon the expression-resisted him. As you did, Mrs. Randolph. He miscalculated with you, possibly because his instincts were confused by a more basic desire. But there lay the danger to you. Randolph literally could not let you go. What he fails to fascinate he must destroy. And eventually he destroys even that which he fascinates.”
“Then everything he’s done,” Michael muttered, “all his success-a fraud. A gigantic fraud.”
“Not at all. He has one undeniable talent: Charisma, we call it-the ability to charm and command affection, loyalty. All leaders have it, to some extent, and all of them depend on advisers, speech writers, hired experts, to supply any qualities they may lack. If Randolph had accepted that kind of help, he might have been a successful politician and a good teacher; he is not a stupid man. But he isn’t content with mere competence. A healthy, strong body, and the finest of training, let him excel in the sports he selected-and don’t underestimate the power of that confident personality on his opponents. But he knew that eventually he would lose, when he got into the big leagues, against opponents who were simply better than he was. So he quit.”