"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 hiccupping, 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 hiccupping. 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 hiccupping," 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?"
"Oh, sure."
"Around Regan?"
She shrugged. "I suppose." She stood up and took her plates to the sink. "As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure."
"Have you ever studied Latin?" Karras asked her.
"No, I haven't."
"But you'd recognize the general sound."
"Oh, I'm sure." She rinsed the soup bowl and put it in the rack.
"Has she ever spoken Latin in your presence?"
"Regan?"
"Since her illness."
"No, never."
"Any language at all?" probed Karras.
She tuned off the faucet, thoughtful. "Well, I might have imagined it, I guess, but..."
"What?"
"Well, I think..." She frowned. "Well, I could have sworn I heard her talking in Russian."
Karras stared. "Do you speak it?" he asked her, throat dry.
She shrugged. "Oh, well, so-so." She began to fold the dishcloth: "I just studied it in college, that's all. "
Karras sagged. She did pick the Latin from my brain. Staring bleakly; he lowered his brow to his hand, into doubt, into torments of knowledge and reason: Telepathy more common in states of great tension: speaking always in a language known to someone in the room: "... thinks the same things I'm thinking...": "Bon jour...": "La plume de ma tante...": "Bonne nuit..." With thoughts such as these, he slowly watched blood turning back into wine.
What to do? Get some sleep. Then come back es»d try again... try again... try again.