'
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.
He stood up and looked blearily at Sharon. She was leaning with her back against the sink, arms folded, watching him thoughtfully. 'I'm going over to the residence,' he told her. 'As soon as Regan's awake, I'd like a call.'
'Yes, I'll call you.'
'And the Compazine,' he reminded her. 'You won't forget?'
She shook her head. 'No, I'll take care of it right away,' she said.
He nodded. With hands in hip pockets, he looked down, trying to think of what he might have forgotten to tell Sharon. Always something to be done. Always something overlooked when even everything was done.
'Father, what's going on?' he heard her ask gravely. 'What is it? What's really going on with Rags?'
He lifted up eyes that were haunted and seared. 'I really don't know,' he said emptily.
He turned and walked out of the kitchen.
As he passed through the entry hall, Karras heard footsteps coming up rapidly behind him.
'Father Karras!'
He turned. Saw Karl with his sweater.
'Very sorry,' said the servant as he handed it over. 'I was thinking to finish much before. But I forget.'
The vomit stains were gone and it had a sweet smell. 'That was thoughtful of you, Karl,' the priest said gently. 'Thank you.'
'Thank you, Father Karras.'
There was a tremor in his voice and his eyes were full.
'Thank you for your helping Miss Regan,' Karl finished. Then he averted his head, self-conscious, and swiftly left the entry.
Karras watched, remembering him in Kinderman's car. More mystery. Confusion. Wearily he opened the door. It was night. Despairing, he stepped out of darkness into darkness.
He crossed to the residence, groping toward sleep, but as he entered his room he looked down and saw a message slip pink on the floor. He picked it up. From Frank. The tapes. Home number. 'Please call....'
He picked up the telephone and requested the number. Waited. His hands shook with desperate hope.
'Hello?' A young boy. Piping voice.
'May I speak to your father, please.'
'Yes. just a minute.' Phone clattering. Then quickly picked up. Still the boy. 'Who is this?'
'Father Karras.'
'Father Karits?'
His heart thumping, Karras spoke evenly, 'Karras. Father Karras...'
Down went the phone again.
Karras pressed digging fingers against his brow.
Phone noise.
'Father Karras?'
'Yes, hello, Frank. I've been trying to reach you.'
'Oh, I'm sorry. I've been working on your tapes at the house.'
'Are you finished?'
'Yes, I am. By the way, this is pretty weird stuff.'
'I know.' Karras tried to flatten the tension in his voice. 'What's the story, Frank? What have you found?'
'Well, this 'type-token' ratio, first...'
'Yes?'
'Well, I didn't have enough of a sampling to be absolutely accurate, you understand, but I'd say it's pretty close, or at least as close as you can get with these things. Well, at any rate, the two different voices on the tapes, I would say, are probably separate personalities.'
'Probably?'
'Well, I wouldn't want to swear to it in court. In fact, I'd have to say the variance is really pretty minimal.'
