a squeaking of bedsprings. Irritable muttering. Then someone approaching: a sound that was irregular: the dragging clump of an orthopedic shoe. Abruptly the door jerked partly open, the chain of a safety latch rattling to its limit as a woman in a slip scowled out through the aperture, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.
'Oh, it's you,' she said huskily. She took off the chain.
Karl met the eyes that were shifting hardness, that were haggard wells of pain and blame; glimpsed briefly the dissolute bending of the lips and the ravaged face of a youth and a beauty buried alive in a thousand motel rooms, in a thousand awakenings from restless sleep with a stifled cry at remembered grace.
'C'mon, tell 'im to fuck off!' A coarse male voice from within the apartment. Slurred. The boyfriend.
The girl turned her head and snapped quickly, 'Oh, shut up, jerk, it's Pop!'
The girl turned to Karl. 'He's drunk, Pop. Ya better not come in.'
Karl nodded.
The girl's hollow eyes shifted down to his hand as it reached to a back trouser pocket for a wallet. 'How's Mama?' she asked him, dragging on her cigarette, eyes on the hands that were dipping in the wallet, hands counting out tens.
'She is fine. ' He nodded. tersely. 'Your mother is fine.'
As he handed her the money, she began to cough rackingly. She threw up a hand to her mouth. 'Fuckin' cigarettes!' she choked out.
Karl stared at the puncture scabs on her arm.
'Thanks, Pop.'
He felt the money being slipped from his fingers.
'Jesus, hurry it up!' growled the boyfriend from within.
'Listen, Pop, we better cut this kinds short. Okay? Ya know how he gets.'
'Elvira...!' Karl had suddenly reached through the door and grasped her wrist. 'There is clinic in New York now!' he whispered at her pleadingly.
She was grimacing, trying to break free from his grip.
'Oh, come on!'
'I will send you! They help you! You don't go to jail! It is- 'Jesus, come on, Pop!' she screeched, breaking free from his clutch.
'No, no, please! It is---'
She slammed the door in his face.
In the shadowy hall, in the carpeted tomb of his expectations, Karl stared mutely for a moment at the door, and then lowered his head into quiet grief. From within the apartment came muffed conversation. Then a cynical, ringing woman's laugh. It was followed by coughing.
Karl turned away, and felt a sudden stab of shock as he found the way blocked by Lieutenant Kinder- man.
'Perhaps we could talk now, Mr. Engstrom,' he wheezed. Hands in the pockets of his coat. Eyes sad. 'Perhaps we could now have a talk...'
CHAPTER TWO
Karras threaded tape to an empty reel in the office of the rotund, silver-hair director of the Institute of Languages and Linguistics. Having carefully edited sections of his tapes onto separate reels, he was about to play the first. He started the tape recorder and stepped back from the table. They listened to the fever voice croaking its gibberish. Then he turned to the director. 'What is that, Frank? Is it a language?'
The director was sitting on the edge of his desk. By the time the tape ended, he was frowning in puzzlement. 'Pretty weird. Where'd you get that?'
Karras stopped the tape. 'Oh, it's something that I've had for a number of years from when I worked on a case of dual personality. I'm doing a paper on it.'
'I see.'
'Well, what about it?'
The director pulled off his glasses and chewed at the tortoise frame. 'No, it isn't any language that I've ever heard. However...' He frowned. And then looked up at Karras. 'Want to play it again?'
Karras quickly rewound the tape and played it over. 'Now what do you think?' he asked.
'Well, it does have the cadence of speech.'
Karras felt a quickening of hope. Fought it down. 'Yes, that's what I thought,' he agreed.
'But I certainly don't recognize it, Father. Is it ancient or modern? Or do you know?'
'No, I don't.'
'Well, why not leave it with me, Father? I'll check it with some of the boys.'
'Could you make up a copy of it, Frank? I'd like to keep the original myself.'
'Oh, yes, surely.'
'In the meantime, I've got something else. Got the time?'
