A set of restraining straps was delivered to the house and Chris stood watching, wan and spent, while Karl affixed them to Regan's bed and then to her wrists. Then as Chris moved a pillow in an effort to center it under Regan's head, the Swiss straightened up and looked pityingly at the child's ravaged face. 'She is going to be well?' he asked. A hint of some emotion had tinged his words; they were lightly italicized with concern.
But Chris could not answer. As Karl was addressing her, she'd picked up an object that had been tucked under Regan's pillow. 'Who put this crucifix here?' she demanded.
'The syndrome is only the manifestation of some conflict, of some guilt, so we try to get at it, find out what it is. Well, the best procedure in a case like this is hypnotherapy; however, we can't seem to put her under. So then we took a shot at narcosynthesis---that's a treatment that uses narcotics---but, frankly, that looks like another dead end.'
'So what's next?''
'Mostly time, I'm afraid, mostly time. We'll just have to keep trying, and hope for a change. In the meantime, she's going to have to be hospitalized for a...'
Chris found Sharon in the kitchen setting up her typewriter on the table. She had just brought it up from the basement playroom. Willie sliced carrots at the sink for a stew.
'Was it you who put the crucifix under her pillow, Shar?' Chris asked with the strain of tension.
'What do you mean?' asked Sharon, fuddled.
'You didn't?'
'Chris, I don't even know what you're talking about. Look, I told you. I told you on the plane, all I've ever said to Rags is 'God made the world' and maybe things about---'
'Fine, Sharon, fine; I believe you, but---'
'Me, I don't put it,' growled Willie defensively.
'Somebody put it there, dammit!' Chris erupted, then wheeled on Karl as he entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. 'Look, I'll ask you again,' she gritted in a tone that verged on shrillness: 'Did you put that crucifix under her pillow?'
'No, madam,' he answered levelly. He was folding ice cubes into a face towel. 'No. No cross.'
'That fucking cross didn't just walk up there, damn you! One of you is lying!' She was shrieking with a rage that stunned the room. 'Now you tell me who put it there, who---'' Abruptly she slumped to a chair and began to sob into trembling hands. 'Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm doing!' she wept. 'Oh, my God, I don't know what I'm doing!'
Willie and Karl watched silently as Sharon came up beside her and kneaded her neck with a comforting hand. 'Hey, okay. It's okay.'
Chris wiped at her face with the back of a sleeve. 'yeah, I guess whoever did it'---she sniffled---'was only trying to help.'
'Look, I'm telling you again and you'd better believe it, I'm not about to put her in a goddamn asylum!'
'It's---'
'I don't care what you call it! I'm not letting her out of my sight!'
'Well, I'm sorry.'
'Yeah, sorry! Christ! Eighty-eight doctors and all you can tell me with all of your bullshit is...'
Chris smoked a cigarette, tamped it out nervously and went upstairs to look in on Regan. She opened the door. In the gloom of the bedroom, she made out a figure by Regan's bedside, sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair. Karl. What was he doing? she wondered.
As Chris moved closer, he child not look up, but kept his gaze on the child's face. He had his arm outstretched and was touching it. What was in his hand? As Chris reached the bedside, she saw what it was: the improvised ice pack he had fashioned in the kitchen. Karl was cooling Regan's forehead.
Chris was touched, stood watching with surprise, and when Karl did not move or acknowledge her presence, she turned and quietly left the room.
She went to the kitchen, drank black coffee and smoked another cigarette. Then on an impulse she went to the study. Maybe... maybe...
'... an outside chance, since possession is loosely related to hysteria insofar as the origin of the syndrome is almost always autosuggestive. Your daughter must have known about possession, believed in possession, and known about some of its symptoms, so that now her unconscious is producing the syndrome. If that can be established, you might take a stab at a form of cure that's autosuggestive. I think of it as shock treatment in these cases, though most other therapists wouldn't agree, I suppose. Oh, well---as I said, it's a very outside chance, and since you're opposed to your daughter being hospitalized, I'll---'
'Name it, for Gods sake! What is it?!'
'Have you ever heard of exorcism, Mrs. MacNeil?'
The books in the study were part of the furnishings and Chris was unfamiliar with them. Now she was scanning the titles, searching, searching....
'... stylized ritual now out of date in which rabbis and priests tried to drive out the spirit. It's only the Catholics who haven't discarded it yet, but they keep it pretty much in the closet as sort of an embarrassment, I think. But to someone who thinks that he's really possessed, I would say that the ritual's rather impressive. It used to work, in fact, although not the reason they thought, of course; it was purely the -force of suggestion. The victim's belief in possession helped cause it, or at least the appearance of the a syndrome, and in just the same way his belief in the power of the exorcism can make it disappear. It's---ah, you're frowning. Well, perhaps I should tell you about the Australian aborigines. They're convinced that if some wizard thinks a 'death ray' at them from a distance, why, they're definitely going to die, you see. And the fact is that they do! They just lie down and slowly die! And the
