Shaking his head, he came over to the table and sat down wearily. He stared at the floor. Heard porcelain clicks of a spoon stirring coffee. "Have you talked to her father?" he asked.
"Yes. Yes, he called." A pause. "He wanted to talk to Rags."
"And what did you tell him?"
A pause. Then, "I told him she was out at a party."
Silence. Karras heard no more clicks. He looked up and saw her staring at the ceiling. And then he noticed it too: the shouts above had finally ceased.
"I guess the Librium took hold," he said gratefully.
Chiming of the doorbell. He glanced toward the sound; then at Chris, who met his look of surmise with a questioning, apprehensive lifting of an eyebrow.
Kinderman?
Seconds. Ticking. They waited. Willie was resting. Sharon and Karl were still upstairs. No one coming to answer. Tense, Chris got up abruptly from the table and went to the living room. Kneeling on a sofa, she parted a curtain and peered furtively through the window at her caller. Thank God! Not Kinderman. She was looking, instead, at a tall old man in a threadbare raincoat, his head bowed patiently in the rain. He carried a worn, old- fashioned valise. For an instant, a buckle gleamed in street-lamp glow as the bag shifted slightly in his grip.
The doorbell chimed again.
Who is that?
Puzzled, Chris got down off the sofa and walked to the entry hall. She opened the door only slightly, squinting out into darkness as a fine mist of rain brushed her eyes. The man's hat brim obscured his face. "Yes, hello; can I help you?"
"Mrs. MacNeil?" came a voice from the shadows. It was gentle, refined, yet as full as a harvest.
As he reached for his hat, Chris was nodding her head, and then suddenly she was looking into eyes that overwhelmed her, that shone with intelligence and kindly understanding, with serenity that poured from them into her being like the waters of a warm and healing river whose source was both in him yet somehow beyond him; whose flow was contained and yet headlong and endless.
"I'm Father Merrin."
For a moment she looked blank as she stared at the lean and ascetic face; at the sculptured cheekbones, polished like soapstone; then quickly she flung wide the door. "Oh, my gosh, please come in! Oh; come in! Gee, I'm... Honestly! I don't know where my..."
He entered and she closed the door.
"I mean, I didn't expect you until tomorrow!"
"Yes, I know," she heard him saying.
As she turned around to face him, she saw him standing with his head angled sideways, glancing upward, as if he were listening---no, more like feeling; she thought---for some presence out of sight... some distant vibration that was known and familiar. Puzzled, she watched him. His skin seemed weathered by alien winds, by a sun that shone elsewhere, somewhere remote from her time and her place.
What's he doing?
"Can I take that bag for you, Father? It must weigh a ton by now."
"It's all right," he said softly. Still feeling. Still probing. "It's like part of my arm: very old... very battered." He looked down with a warm, tired smile in his eyes. "I'm accustomed to the weight.... Is Father Karras here?" he asked.
"Yes, he is. He's in the kitchen. Have you had any dinner, incidentally, Father?"
He kicked his glance upward at the sound of a door being opened. "Yes, I had some on the train."
"Are you sure you wouldn't like something else?"
A moment. Then sound of the door being closed. He glanced down. "No, thank you."
"Gee, all of this rain," she protested, still flustered. "If I'd known you were coming, I could have met you at the station."
"It's all right."
"Did you have to wait long for a cab?"
"A few minutes."
"I take that, Father!"
Karl. He'd descended the stairs very quickly and now slipped the bag from the priest's easy grip and took it off down the hall.
"We've put a bed in the study for you, Father:" Chris was fidgeting. "It's really very comfortable and I thought you'd like the privacy. I'll show you where it is." She'd started moving, then stopped. "Or would you like to say hello to Father Karras?"
"I should like to see your daughter first," said Merrin.
She looked puzzled "Right now, you mean, Father?"
He glanced upward again with that distant attentiveness. "Yes, now---I think now."
"Gee, I'm sure she's asleep."
"I think not."
"Well, if---"
Suddenly, Chris flinched at a sound from above, at the voice of the demon, booming and yet muffled, croaking, like amplified premature burial.
"Merriiiiinnnnnn!"
Then the massive and shiveringly hollow jolt of a single blow against the bedroom wall.
"God almighty!" Chris breathed as she clutched a pale hand against her chest. Stunned, she looked at Merrin.
The priest hadn't moved. He was still staring upward, intense and yet serene, and in his eyes there was not even a hint of surprise. It was more, Chris thought, like recognition.
Another blow shook the walls.
"Merriiiiinnnnnnnnnn!"
The Jesuit moved slowly forward, oblivious of Chris, who was gaping in wonder; of Karl, stepping lithe and incredulous from the study; of Karras, emerging bewildered from the kitchen while the nightmarish poundings and croakings continued. He went calmly up the staircase, slender hand like alabaster sliding upward on the banister.
Karras came up beside Chris, and together they watched from below as Merrin entered Regan's bedroom and closed the door behind him. For a time there was silence. Then abruptly the demon laughed hideously and Merrin came out. He closed the door and started down the hall. Behind him, the bedroom door opened again and Sharon poked her head out, staring -after him, an odd expression on her face.