But there was always one source of peace and consolation. The Reverend took down his Bible, intending to turn to the psalms—the ninety-first, probably. But he dropped the Book in astonishment.
It had happened so quickly it could scarcely be believed.
The smudge on his thumb had been black. In the instant that it touched the Bible it turned blood-red, exactly like the stain on Mark Mallow’s hand. Then there was a minute hissing noise and an instant of intense heat.
There was no smudge at all on his thumb now.
There was no one in Dr. Halstead’s office. The Reverend took up the phone hastily and dialed the number of the Times. He said “Book department,” and a moment later demanded urgently, “Miss Wentz? Can you give me Mallow’s home address?”
Mark Mallow ate well, as he always did when he felt inclined to cook for himself. The dinner was simple: a pair of rex sole, boiled rice (with a pinch of saffron), and a tossed salad; but it could not have been satisfactorily duplicated even in San Francisco, the city of restaurants.
A half bottle of decent Chablis with dinner and a brandy after (both from California vineyards, but nowise despicable) had made Mallow mellow, as he thought to himself with perverse delight in the jarring phrase. Now the insight of Simenon would add pleasurably to his glow.
He settled himself in front of the fireplace. It was quiet up there in the Berkeley hills. No, quiet was too mild a word. It was still—no, stronger yet—it was stilled. Hushed and gently frozen into silence.
There was nothing in the world but the fire and his purring digestive system and the book in his hand . . . The book was The Blood Is the Death and the fire shone on his reddened hand.
Mark Mallow swore to himself, but he was too post-prandially lazy to move from the chair. He opened the book and read on a little. His eyes half-closed; high-flown gibberish is one of the finest soporifics. They jerked open and he sat up with a start to greet the unexpected visitor.
The room was empty.
He swore again, in a half-hearted way. He turned his attention to those exquisitely satisfactory digestive processes and noticed that they had reached a point demanding some attention. He rose from the chair, carried The Blood over to the current-review bookcase, replaced it there, and took out the Simenon and laid it on the arm of the chair. Then he went to the bathroom, looking, for no good reason, over his shoulder as he left the room.
The Reverend had stout legs. He needed them as he toiled up the hills beyond the end of the bus line.
What are you going to say? The Reverend asked himself. What are you going to do? He couldn’t answer his questions. He knew only that he had encountered a situation where his duty demanded action.
In the Roman Church, he believed, one of the lower orders of the priesthood was known by the title of Exorcist. He wondered if the Roman clergy were taught the functions of that order, or was the name merely an archaic survival? Shamefacedly he let his fingers steal into his pocket and touch the bottle nestling there—the tiny bottle which he had filled with holy water as he passed a Roman church.
The lights ahead must be those of Mark Mallow’s house. From the front window came a glow which seemed to be that of a reading lamp combined with a wood fire. The lighted window was peaceful and of good omen.
The redness came then—the vast redness that filled the room and the window and both The Reverend’s eyes.
When Mark Mallow came back from the bathroom, he almost hesitated before entering the room. He felt an absurd impulse to retreat, lock the door, and go to bed. He smiled at himself (a rare phenomenon) and proceeded resolutely to the chair. He sat back, picked up the Simenon . . . and its print came off red on his fingers. He stood up in wrath and hurled the crackpot volume into the fire.
In the instant before he hurled it, the room gathered itself up into expectation. The shadows quivered, knowing what manner of light was about to dispel them. The flames of the fireplace shrank back to receive their fierce fresh fuel. For an instant there was no time in this space.
That tick that was eternity passed and time rushed back into the room. The book found the flames and the flames found the blood and the blood found the death that is the life and the life that is death. The shadow went from infra-visibility to blinding sight and it was one with flames and blood and book and the one thing that was shadow and flames and blood and book leapt.
The room was dark when The Reverend entered. There had been too much light there for an instant; the balance of the sane universe demanded blackness.
The light came on without his touching it when the balance hung even again. He did not blink because it was necessary that he should see this sight. He saw the body of Mark Mallow and he saw the blood of Mark Mallow and another.
The Reverend knew what to do. He opened the phial of holy water and started to pour it on the blood. Instead, the blood ran toward him, but he did not flinch. He stood his ground and watched as the water and the blood commingled and were one, and that one was the water. He recorked the phial, and in it was only water and around the body of Mark Mallow was only the blood of one man.
He left the house. He understood a little. He understood that human reason cannot accept a corpse which sheds twice its amount of blood, and that his presence
