"Like this?"
"Yeah, okay. Go ahead now, just talk." Giggling. The microphone bumping a table. Then the sweet, clear voice of Regan MacNeiclass="underline" "Hello, Daddy? This is me. Ummm..." Giggling; then a whispered aside: "I can't tell what to say!"
"Oh, just tell him how you are, honey. Tell about all of the things you've been doing." More giggling, then: "Umm, Daddy... Well, ya see... I mean, I hope you can hear me okay, and, umm---well, now, let's see. Umm, well, first we're---No, wait, now.... See, first we're in Washington, Daddy, ya know? I mean, that's where the President lives; and this house---ya know. Daddy?---it's---No, wait, now; I better start over. See, Daddy, there's..."
Karras heard the rest only dimly, from afar, through the roaring of blood in his ears, like the ocean, as up through his chest and his fate swelled an overwhelming intuition: The thing that I saw in that room wasn't Regan!
He returned to the Jesuit residence hall. Found a cubicle. Said Mass before the rush. As he lifted the Host in consecration, it trembled in his fingers with a hope he dared not hope, that he fought with every particled fiber of his will. " 'For this is My Body...' " he whispered tremulously.
No, bread! This is nothing but bread!
He dared not love again and lose. That loss was too great, that pain too keen. He bowed his head and swallowed the Host like lost illusion. For a moment it stuck in the dryness of his throat.
After Mass, he skipped breakfast. Made notes for his lecture. Met his class at the Georgetown University Medical School. Threaded hoarsely through the ill-prepared talk: "... and in considering the symptoms of manic mood disorders, you will..."
"Daddy, this is me... this is me..."
But who was "me"?
Karras dismissed the class early and returned to his room, where immediately he hunched over his desk, palms of his hands pressed flat, and intently reexamined the Church's position on the paranormal signs of demonic possession. Was I being too hard-nosed? he wondered. He scrutinized the high points in Satan: "telepathy... natural phenomenon... movement of objects from a distance now suspect... from the body there may emanate some fluid... our forefathers... science... nowadays we must be more cautious. The paranormal evidence notwithstanding, however... " He slowed the pace of his reading. "... all conversations held with the patient must be carefully analyzed, for if they present the same system of association of ideas and of logicogrammatical habits that he exhibits in his normal state, the possession must then be held suspect."
Karras breathed deeply, exhausted. Then exhaled. Dropped his head. No way. Doesn't cut it. He glanced to the plate on the facing page. A demon. His gaze flicked down idly to the caption: "Pazuzu." Karras shut his eyes. Something wrong. Tranquille... He envisioned the exorcist's death: the final agonies... the bellowing... the hissing... the vomiting... the hurlings to the ground from his bed by his "demons," who were furious because soon he would be dead and beyond their torment. And Lucas! Lucas. Kneeling by the bedside. Praying. But the moment Tranquille was dead, Lucas instantly assumed the identity of his demons, began viciously lucking at the still-warm corpse, at the shattered, clawed body reeking of excrement and vomit, while six strong men were attempting to restrain him, would not stop until the corpse had been carried from the room. Karras saw it. Saw it clearly.
Could it be? Could it possibly, conceivably be? Could the only hope for Regan be the ritual of exorcism? Must he open up that locker of aches?
He could not shake it. Could not leave it untested. He must know. How to know? He opened his eyes. "... conversations with the patient must be carefully..." Yes. Yes, why not? If discovery that speech patterns of Regan and the "demon" were the same ruled out possession even with paranormal occurrences, then certainly... Sure... strong difference in the patterns should mean that there probably is possession!
He paced. What else? What else? Something quick. She---Wait a minute. He paused, staring down, hands clasped behind his back. That chapter... that chapter in the book on witchcraft. Had it mentioned...? Yes, it had: that demons invariably reacted with fury when confronted with the consecrated Host... with relics... with---Holy water! Right! That's it! I'll go up there and sprinkle her with tap water! But tell her it's holy water! Sure! If she reacts the way demons are supposed to react, then I'll know she's not possessed... that the symptoms are suggestive... that she got them from the book! But if she doesn't react it would mean...
Genuine possession?
Maybe...
Feverish, he rummaged for a holy-water vial.
Willie admitted him to the house. In the entry, he glanced toward Regan's bedroom. Shouts. Obscenities. And yet not in the deep, coarse voice of the demon. Raspy. Lighter. A broad British... Yes!... The manifestation that had fleetingly appeared when he'd last sees Regan.
Karras glanced down at the waiting Willie. She was staring puzzled at the Roman collar. At the priestly robes. "Where's Mrs. MacNeil, please?" Karras asked her.
Willie motioned upstairs.
'Thank you."
He moved to the staircase. Climbed. Saw Chris in the hall. She was sitting in a chair near Regan's bedroom, head lowered, her arms folded on her chest. As the Jesuit approached her, Chris heard the swishing of his robes. She glanced up and quickly stood. "Hello, Father."
There were bluish sacs beneath her eyes. Karras frowned. "Did you sleep?"
"Oh, a little."
He was shaking his head in admonishment.
"Well, I couldn't," she sighed at him, motioning her head at Regan's door. "She's been doing that all night."
"Any vomiting?"
"No." She took hold of his sleeve as if to lead him away. "C'mon, let's go downstairs where we can---"
"No, I'd like to see her," he gently interrupted. He resisted the tugging insistence of her lead.
"Right now?"
Something wrong, reflected Karras. She looked tense. Afraid. "Why not now?" he inquired.
She glanced furtively at the door of Regan's bedroom. From within shrieked the hoarse mad voice: "Damned Naa-zi! Naa-zi cunt!"
Chris looked away; then reluctantly nodded. "Go ahead. Go on in."
"You've got a tape recorder?"
Her eyes searched his with quick movements. Little flicks.
"Could you have it bought up to the room with a blank reel of tape, please?"
She frowned with suspicion. "What for?" Then alarm.
"You mean, you want to tape...?"
"Yes, it's im---"
"Father, I can't have you...!"
"I need to make comparisons of patterns of speech," he cut in firmly. "Now please! You're just going to have to trust me!"
They turned to the door as an excoriating, stream of obscenities apparently drove Karl out of Regan's bedroom. His face ashen and grim, he was carrying soiled diapers and bedding.
"Get 'em on, Karl?" Chris asked him as the servant closed the bedroom door behind him.