Текст книги "The Exorcist"

Автор книги: William Peter Blatty

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    "I guess," Chris sighed, dejected. "But I'll tell you the truth, doc, I don't understand how her whole personality could be changed."

    "In temporal lobe, that's extremely common, and can last for days or even weeks. It isn't rare to find destructive and even criminal behavior. There's such a big change, in fact, that two or three hundred years ago people with temporal lobe disorders were often considered to be possessed by a devil."

    "They were what?"

    "Taken over by the mind of a demon. You know, something like a superstitious version of split personality."

    Chris closed her eyes and lowered her forehead onto a fist. "Listen, tell me something good," she murmured.

    "Well, now, don't be alarmed. If it is a lesion, in a way she's fortunate. Then all we have to do is remove the scar."

    "Oh, swell."

    "Or it could be just pressure on the brain. Look, I'd like to have some X-rays taken of her skull. There's a radiologist here in the building, and perhaps I can get him to take you right away. Shall I call him?"

    "God, yes; go ahead; let's do it."

    Klein called and set it up. They would take her immediately, they told him.

    He hung up the phone and began writing a prescription. "Room twenty-one on the second floor. Then I'll probably call you tomorrow or Thursday. I'd like a neurologist in on this. In the meantime, I'm taking her off the Ritalin. Let's try her on Librium for a while."

    He ripped the prescription sheet from the pad and handed it over. "I'd try to stay close to her, Mrs.

    MacNeil. In these walking trance states, if that's what it is, it's always possible for her to hurt herself. Is your bedroom close to hers?"

    "Yeah, it is."

    "That's fine. Ground floor?"

    "No, second."

    "Big windows in her bedroom?"

    "Well, one. What's the deal?"

    "Well, I'd try to keep it closed, maybe even put a lock on it. In a trance state, she might go through it. I once had a–"

    "–Patient," Chris finished with a trace of a wry, weary smile.

    He grinned. "I guess I do have a lot of them, don't I?"

    "A couple."

    She propped her face on her hand and leaned thoughtfully forward. "You know, I thought of something else just now."

    "And what was that?"

    "Well, like after a fit, you were saying, she'd right away fall dead asleep. Like on Saturday night. I mean, didn't you say that?"

    "Well, Yes." Klein nodded. "That's right."

    "Well, then, how come those other times she said that her bed was shaking, she was always wide awake?"

    "You didn't tell me that."

    "Well, its so. She looked just fine. She'd just come to my room and then ask to get in bed with me."

    "Bed wetting? Vomiting?"

    Chris shook her head. "She was fine."

    Klein frowned and gently chewed on his lip for a moment. "Well, let's look at those X-rays," he finally told her.

    Feeling drained and numb, Chris shepherded Regan to the radiologist; stayed at her side while the X-rays were taken; took her home. She'd been strangely mute since the second injection, and Chris made an effort now to engage her.

    "Want to play some Monopoly or somethin'?"

    Regan shook her head and then stared at her mother with unfocused eyes that seemed to be retracted into infinite remoteness. "I'm feeling sleepy," Regan said in a voice that belonged to the eyes. Then, turning, she climbed up the stairs to her bedroom.

    Must be the Librium, Chris reflected as she watched her. Then at last she sighed and went into the kitchen. She poured some coffee and sat down at the breakfast-nook table with Sharon.

    "How'd it go?"

    "Oh, Christ!"

    Chris fluttered the prescription slip onto the table. "Better call and get that filled," she said, and then explained what the doctor had told her. "If I'm busy or out, keep a real good eye on her, would you, Shar? He–" Dawning. Sudden. "That reminds me."

    She got up from the table and went up to Regan's bedroom, found her under the covers and apparently asleep.

    Chris moved to the window and tightened the latch. She staffed below. The window, facing out from the side of the house, directly overlooked the precipitous public staircase that plunged to M Street far below.

    Boy, I'd better call a locksmith right away.

    Chris returned to the kitchen and added the chore to the list from which Sharon sat working, gave Willie the dinner menu, and returned a call from her agent.

    "What about the script?" he wanted to know.

    "Yeah, it's great, Ed; let's do it," she told him. "When's it go?"

    "Well, your segment's in July, so you'll have to start preparing right away."

    "You mean now?"

    "I mean now. This isn't acting, Chris. You're involved in a lot of the preproduction. You've got to work with the set designer, the costume designer, the makeup artist, the producer. And you'll have to pick a cameraman and a cutter and block out your shots. C'mon, Chris, you know the drill."

    "Oh, shit."

    "You've got a problem?"

    "Yeah, I do; I've got a problem."

    "What's the problem?"

    "Well, Regan's pretty sick."

    "Oh, I'm Sony. What's wrong?"

    "They don't know yet. I'm waiting for some tests. Listen, Ed, I can't leave her."

    "So who says to leave her?"

    "No, you don't understand, Ed. I need to be at home with her. She needs my attention. Look, I just can't explain it, Ed, it's too complicated, so why don't we just hold off for a while?"

    "We can't. They want to try for the Music Hall over Christmas, Chris, and I think that they're pushing it now."

    "Oh, for chrissakes, Ed, they can wait two weeks. Now come on!"

    "Look, you've bugged me that you want to direct and now all of a–"

    "Right, Ed, I know," she interrupted. "Look, I want it; I really want it bad, but you'll just have to tell 'em that I need some more time!"

    "And if I do, we're going to blow it. Now that's my opinion. Look, they don't want you anyway, that's not news. They're just doing this for Moore, and I think if they go back to him now and say she isn't too sure she wants to do it yet, he'll have an out. Now come on, Chris, talk sense. Look, You do what you want. I don't care. There's no money in this thing unless it hits. But if you want it, I'm telling you: I ask for a delay and I think we're going to blow it. Now then, what should I tell them?"

    "Ahh, boy," sighed Chris.

    "It's not easy. I know."

    "No, it isn't. Well, listen..."

    She thought. Then shook her head. "Ed, they'll just have to wait," she said wearily.

    "Your decision."

    "Okay, Ed. Let me know."

    "I will. I'll be calling. Take it easy."

    "You too, Ed. Good-bye."

    She hang up the phone in a state of depression and lit up a cigarette. "I talked to Howard, by the way, did I tell you?" she said to Sharon.

    "Oh, when? Did you tell him what's happening with Rags?"

    "I told him. I told him he ought to come see her."

    "Is he coming?"

    "I don't know. I don't think so," Chris answered.

    "You'd think he'd make the effort."

    "Yeah, I know." Chris sighed. "But you've got to understand his hang-up, Shar. That's it. I know that's it."

    "What's it?"

    "Oh, the whole 'Mr. Chris MacNeil' thing. Rags was a part of it. She was in and he was out. Always me and Rags together on the magazine covers; me and Rags in the layouts; mother and daughter, pixie twins." She tipped ash from her cigarette with a moody forger. "Ah, nuts, who knows. It's all mixed up. But it's hard to get hacked with him, Spar; I Just can't."

    She reached out for a book by Sharon's elbow. "So what are you reading?"

    "What do you mean? Oh, that. That's for you. I forgot. Mrs. Perrin dropped it by."

    "She was here?"

    "Yes, this morning. Said she's sorry she missed you and she's going out of town, but she'll call you as soon as she's back."

    Chris nodded and glanced at the title of the book: A Study of Devil Worship and Related Occult Phenomena. She opened it and found a penned note from Mary Jo Perrin: Dear Chris: I happened by the Georgetown University Library and picked this up for you. It has some chapters about Black Mass. You should read it all, however; I think you'll find the other sections particularly interesting. See you soon.

Mary Jo

"Sweet lady," said Chris.

    "Yes, she is," agreed Sharon.

    Chris riffled through the pages of the back, "What's the scoop on Black Mass? Pretty hairy?"

    "I don't know," answered Sharon. "I haven't read it."

    "No good for serenity?"

    Sharon stretched and yawned. "Oh, that stuff turns me off."

    "What happened to your Jesus complex?"

    "Oh, come on."

    Chris slid the book across the table to Sharon. "Here, read it and tell me what happens."

    "And get nightmares?"

    "What do you think you get paid for?"

    "Throwing up."

    "I can do that myself," Chris muttered as she pick up the evening paper. "All you have to do is stick your business manager's advice down your throat and you're vomiting blood for a week." Irritably, she put the paper aside. "Would you turn on the radio, Shar? Get the news."

    Sharon had dinner at the house with Chris, and then left for a date. She forgot the book. Chris saw it on the table and thought about reading it, but finally she felt too weary. She left it on the table and walked upstairs.

    She looked in on Regan, who still seemed to be asleep under the covers, and apparently sleeping through. She checked the window again. Leaving the room, Chris made sure to leave the door wide open and then did the same with her own before getting into bed. She watched part of a movie on television. Then slept.

    The following morning, the book about devil worship had vanished from the table.

    No one noticed.

CHAPTER THREE

The consulting neurologist pinned up the X-rays again and searched for indentations that would look as if the skull had been pounded like copper with a tiny hammer.

    Dr. Klein stood behind him with folded arms. They had both looked for lesions and collections of fluid; for a possible shifting of the pineal gland. Now they probed for Lückenshadl Skull, the telltale depressions that would indicate chronic intracranial pressure.

    They did not find it. The date was Thursday, April 28.

    The consulting neurologist removed his glasses and carefully tucked them into the left breast poet of his jacket. "There's just nothing there, Sam, Nothing I can see."

    Klein frowned at the floor with a shake of the head. "Doesn't figure."

    "Want to run another series?"

    "I don't think so. I'll try an LP."

    "Good idea."

    "In the meantime, I'd like you to see her."

    "How's today?"

    "Well, I'm–" Telephone buzzer. "Excuse me." He picked up the telephone. "Yes?"

    "Mrs. MacNeil on the phone. Says it's urgent."

    "What line?"

    "She's on twelve."

    He punched the extension button. "Dr. Klein, Mrs. MacNeil. What's the trouble?"

    Her voice was distraught and on the brim of hysteria. "Oh, God, doc, it's Regan! Can you come right away?"

    'Well, what's wrong?"

    "I don't know, doc, I just can't describe it! Oh, for God's sake, come over! Come now!"

    "Right away!"

    He disconnected and buzzed his receptionist. "Susan, tell Dresner to take my appointments." He hung up the phone and started taking off his jacket. "That's her. You want to come? It's only just across the bridge."

    "I've got an hour."

    "Let's go."

    They were there within minutes, and at the door, where Sharon greeted them, they heard moans and screams of terror from Regan's bedroom. She looked frightened. "I'm Sharon Spencer," she said. "Come on. She's upstairs."

    She led them to the door of Regan's bedroom, where she cracked it open and called in, "Doctors, Chris!"

    Chris immediately came to the door, her face contorted in a vise of fear. "Oh, my God, come in!" she quavered. "Come on in and take a look at what she's doing!"

    "This is Dr.–"

    In the middle of the introduction, Klein broke off as he stared at Regan. Shrieking hysterically, she was flailing her arms as her body seemed to fling itself up horizontally into the air above her bed and then slammed dawn savagely onto the mattress. It was happening rapidly and repeated.

    "Oh, Mother, make him stop!" she was screeching "Stop him. He's trying to kill me! Stop him Stooopppppp hiiiiiimmmmmmmm, Motherrrrrrrrrrrrr!"

    "Oh, my baby!" Chris whimpered as she jerked up a fist to her mouth and bit it. She turned a beseeching look to Klein. "Doc, what is it? What's happening?"

    He shook his head, his gaze fixed on Regan as the odd phenomenon continued. She would lift about a foot each time and then fall with a wrenching of her breath, as if unseen hands had picked her up and thrown her down.

    Chris shaded her eyes with a trembling hand. "Oh, Jesus, Jesus!" she said hoarsely. "Doc, what is it?"

    The up and down movements ceased abruptly and the girl twisted feverishly from side to side with her eyes rolled upward into their sockets so that only the whites were exposed.

    "Oh, he's burning me... burning me!" Regan was moaning. "Oh, I'm burning! I'm burning!..."

    Her legs began rapidly crossing and uncrossing.

    The doctors moved closer, one on either side of the bed. Still twisting and jerking, Regan arched her head back, disclosing a swollen, bulging throat. She began to mutter something incomprehensible in an oddly guttural tone.

    "... nowonmai... nowonmai..."

    Klein reached down to check her pulse.

    "Now, let's see what the trouble is, dear," he said gently.

    And abruptly was reeling, stunned and staggering, across the room from the force of a vicious backward swing of Regan's arm as the girl sat up, her face contorted with a hideous rage.

    "The sow is mine!" she bellowed in a coarse and powerful voice. "She is mine! Keep away from her! She is mine!"

    A yelping laugh gushed up from her throat, and then she fell on her back as if someone had pushed her. She pulled up her nightgown, exposing her genitals. "Fuck me! Fuck me!" she screamed at the doctors, and with both her hands began masturbating frantically.

    Moments later, Chris ran from the room with a stifled sob when Regan put her fingers to her mouth and licked them.

    As Klein approached the bedside, Regan seemed to hug herself, her hands caressing her arms.

    "Ah, yes, my pearl..." she crooned in that strangely coarsened voice. Her eyes were closed as if in ecstasy. "My child... my flower... my pearl..."

    Then again she was twisting from side to side, moaning meaningless syllables over and over. And abruptly sat up with eyes staring wide with helpless terror.

    She mewed like a cat.

    Then barked.

    Then neighed.

    And then, bending at the waist, started whirling her torso around in rapid strenuous circles. She gasped for breath. "Oh, stop him!" she wept. stop him! It hurts! Make him stop! Make him stop! I can't breathe!"

    Klein had seen enough. He fetched his medical bag to the window and quickly began to prepare an injection.

    The neurologist remained beside the bed and saw Regan fall backward as if from a shove. Her eyes rolled upward into their sockets again, and rolling from side to side, she began to mutter rapidly in guttural tones. The neurologist leaned closer and tried to make it out. Then he saw Klein gently beckoning. He moved to him.

    "I'm giving her Librium," Klein told him guardedly, holding the syringe to the light of the window. "But you're going to have to hold her."

    The neurologist nodded. He seemed preoccupied. He inclined his head to the side as if listening to the muttering from the bed.

    "What's she saying?" Klein whispered.

    "I don't know. Just gibberish. Nonsense syllables." Yet his own explanation seemed to leave him unsatisfied. "She says it as if it means something, though. it's got cadence."

    Klein nodded toward the bed and they approached quietly from either side. As they come, she went rigid, as if in the stiffening grip of tetany, and the doctors -looked at each other significantly. Then looked again to Regan as she started to arch her body upward into an impossible position, bending it backward like a bow until the brow of her head had touched her feet. She was screaming in pain.

    The doctors eyed each her with questioning surmise. Then Klein gave a signal to the neurologist. But before the consultant could seize her, Regan fell limp in a faint and wet the bed.

    Klein leaned over and rolled up her eyelid. Checked her pulse. "She'll be out for a while," he murmured. "I think she convulsed. Don't you?"

    "Yes, I think so."

    "Well, let's take some insurance," said Klein.

    Deftly he administered the injection.

    "Well, what do you think?" Klein asked the consultant as he pressed a circle of sterile tape against the puncture.

    "Temporal lobe. Sure, maybe schizophrenia's a possibility, Sam, but the onset's much too sudden. She hasn't any history of it, right?"

    "No, she hasn't."

    "Neurasthenia?"

    Klein shook his head.

    "Then hysteria, maybe," offered the consultant.

    "I've thought of that."

    "Sure. But she'd have to be a freak to get her body twisted up like she did voluntarily, now, wouldn't you say?" He shook his head. "No, I think it's pathological, Sam–her strength; the paranoia; the hallucinations. Schizophrenia, okay; those symptoms it covers. But temporal lobe would also cover the convulsions. There's one thing that bothers me, though..." He trailed off with a puzzled frown.

    "What's that?"

    "Well, I'm really not sure but I thought I heard signs of dissociation: 'my pearl'... 'my child'... 'My flower'... 'the sow.' I had the feeling she was talking about herself. Was that your impression too, or am I reading something into it?"

    Klein stroked his lip as he mulled the question. "Well, frankly, at the time it never occurred to me, but then now that you point it out..." He grunted thoughtfully. "Could be. Yes. Yes, it could."

    Then he shrugged off the notion. "Well, I'll do an LP right now while she's out and then maybe we'll know something."

    The neurologist nodded.

    Klein poked around in his medical bag, found a pill and tucked it in his pocket. "Can you stay?"

    The neurologist checked his watch. "Maybe half an hour."

    "Let's talk to the mother."

    They left the room and entered the hallway.

    Chris and Sharon were leaning, heads lowed, against the balustrade by the staircase. As the doctors approached them, Chris wiped her nose with a balled, moist handkerchief. Her eyes were red from crying.

    "She's sleeping," Klein told her.

    "Thank God," Chris sighed.

    "And she's heavily sedated. She'll probably sleep right through until tomorrow."

    "That's good," Chris said weakly. "Doc, I'm sorry about being such a baby."

    "You're doing just fine," he assured her "It's a frightening ordeal. By the way, this is Dr. David."

    "Hello," said Chris with a bleak smile.

    "Dr. David's a neurologist."

    "What do you think?" she asked them both.

    "Well, we still think it's temporal lobe," Klein answered, "and–"

    "Jesus, what in the hell are you talking about!" Chris erupted. "She's been acting like a psycho, like a split personality! What do you–"

    Abruptly she pulled herself together and lowered her forehead into a hand.

    "Guess I'm all up-tight." She exhaled wearily. "I'm sorry." She lifted a haggard look to Klein "You were saying?"

    It was David who responded. "There haven't been more than a hundred authenticated cases of split personality, Mrs. MacNeil. It's a rare condition. Now I know the temptation is to leap to psychiatry, but any responsible psychiatrist would exhaust the somatic possibilities first. That's the safest procedure."

    "Okay, so what's next?" Chris sighed.

    "A Lumbar tap," answered David.

    "A spinal?"

    He nodded. "What we missed in the X-rays and the EEG could turn up there. At the least, it would exhaust certain other possibilities. I'd like to do it now, right here, while she's sleeping. I'll give her a local, of course, but it's movement I'm trying to eliminate."

    "How could she jump off the bed like that?" Chris asked, her face squinting up in anxiety.

    "Well, I think we discussed that before," said Klein. "Pathological states can induce abnormal strength and accelerated motor performance."

    "But you don't know why," said Chris.

    "Well, it seems to have something to do with motivation," commented David. "But that's all we know."

    "Well, now, what about the spinal?" Klein asked Chris. "May we?"

    She exhaled, sagging, staring at the floor.

    "Go ahead," she murmured. "Do whatever you have to. Just make her well."

    "We'll try," said Klein. "May I use your phone?"

    "Sure, come on. In the study."

    "Oh, incidentally," said Klein as she turned to lead them, "she needs to have her bedding changed."

    "I'll do it," said Sharon. She moved toward Regan's bedroom.

    "Can I make you some coffee?" asked Chris as the doctors followed down the stairs. "I gave the housekeepers the afternoon off, so it'll have to be instant."

    They declined.

    "I see you haven't fixed that window yet," noted Klein.

    "No, we called," Chris told him. "They're coming out tomorrow with shutters you can lock."

    He nodded approval.

    They entered the study, where Klein called his office and instructed an assistant to deliver the necessary equipment and medication to the house.

    "And set up the lab for a spinal workout," Klein instructed. "I'll run it myself right after the tap."

    When he'd finished the call, he turned to Chris and asked what had happened since last he saw Regan.

    "Well, Tuesday"–Chris pondered–"there was nothing at all. She went straight up to bed and slept right through until late the next morning, then–"

    "Oh, no, no, wait," she amended. "No, she didn't. That's right. Willie mentioned that she'd heard her in the kitchen awfully early. I remember feeling glad that she'd gotten her appetite back. But she went back to bed then, I guess, because she stayed there the rest of the day."

    "She was sleeping?" Klein asked her.

    "No, I think she was reading," Chris answered. "Well, I started feeling a little better about it all. I mean, it looked as if the Librium was just what she needed. She was sort of far away, I noticed, and that bothered me a little, but still it was a pretty big improvement. Well, last night, again, nothing," Chris continued. "Then this morning it started."

    She inhaled deeply.

    "Boy, did it start!" She shook her head.

    She'd been sitting in the kitchen, Chris told the doctors, when Regan ran screaming down the stairs and to her mother, cowering defensively behind her chair as she clutched Chris's arms and explained in a terrified voice that Captain Howdy was chasing her; had been pinching her; punching her; shoving her; mouthing obscenities; threatening to kill her. "There he is!" she had shrieked at last, pointing to the kitchen door. Then she'd fallen to the floor, her body jerking in spasms as she gasped and wept that Howdy was kicking her. Then suddenly, Chris recounted, Regan had stood in the middle of the kitchen with arms extended and had begun to spin rapidly "like a top," continuing the movements for several minutes, until she had fallen to the floor in exhaustion.

    "And then all of a sudden," Chris finished distressfully, "I saw there was... hate in her eyes, this hate, and she told me..."

    She was choking up.

    "She called me a... Oh, Jesus!"

    She burst into sobs, and shielded her eyes as she wept convulsively.

    Klein moved quietly to the bar; poured a glass of water from the tap. He walked toward Chris.

    "Oh, shit, where's a cigarette?" Chris sighed tremulously as she wiped at her eyes with the back of a finger.

    Klein gave her the water and a small green pill. "Try this instead," he advised.

    "That a tranquilizer?"

    "Yes."

    "I'll have a double."

    "One's enough."

    "Big spender," Chris murmured with a wan smile.

    She swallowed the pill and their handed the empty glass to the doctor. "Thanks," she said softly, and rested her brow on quivering fingertips. She shook her head gently. "Yeah, then it started," she picked up moodily. "All of that other stuff. It was like she was someone else."

    "Like Captain Howdy, perhaps?" asked David.

    Chris looked up at him in puzzlement. He was staring so intently. "What do you mean?" she asked.

    "I don't knows." He shrugged. "Just a question."

    She turned to the fireplace with absent, haunted eyes. "I don't know," she said dully. "Just somebody else."

    There was a moment of silence. Then David stood up and explained he had to leave for another appointment, and after some reassuring statements, said goodbye.

    Klein walked him to the door. "You'll check the sugar?" David asked him.

    "No, I'm the Rosslyn village idiot."

    David smiled thinly. "I'm a little up-tight about this myself," he said. He looked away in thought. "Strange case."

    For a moment he stroked his chin and seemed to brood. Then he looked up at Klein. "Let me know what you find."

    "You'll be home?"

    "Yes, I will. Give a call." He waved a good-bye and left.

A short time later, after the arrival of the equipment, Klein anesthetized Regan's spinal area with Novocain, and as Chris and Sharon watched, extracted the spinal fluid, keeping watch on the manometer. "Pressure's normal," he murmured.

    When he'd finished, he went to the window to see if the fluid was clear or hazy.

    It was clear.

    He carefully stowed the tubes of fluid in his bag.

    "I doubt that she will," Klein told the women, "but in case she awakens in the middle of the night and creates a disturbance, you might want a nurse here to give her sedation."

    "Can't I do it myself?" Chris asked worriedly.

    "Why not a nurse?"

    She did not want to mention her deep distrust of doctors and nurses. "I'd rather do it myself," she said simply. "Couldn't I?"

    "Well, injections are tricky," he answered. "An air bubble's very dangerous."

    "Oh, I know how to do it," interjected Sharon. "My mother ran a nursing home up in Oregon."

    "Gee, would you do that, Shar? Would you stay here tonight?" Chris asked her.

    "Well, beyond tonight," interjected Klein. "She may need intravenous feeding, depending on how she comes along."

    "Could you teach me how to do it?" Chris asked him anxiously.

    He nodded. "Yes, I guess I could."

    He wrote a prescription for soluble Thorazine and disposable syringes. He gave it to Chris. "Have this filled right away."

    Chris handed it to Sharon. "Honey, do that for me, would you? Just call and they'll send it. I'd like to go with the doctor while he makes those tests... Do you mind?" she asked him.

    He noted the tightness around her eyes; the look of confusion and of helplessness. He nodded.

    "I know how you feel." He smiled at her gently: "I feel the same way when I talk to mechanics about my car."

    They left the house at precisely 6: 18 P. M.

In his laboratory in the Rosslyn medical building, Klein ran a number of tests. First he analyzed protein content.

    Normal.

    Then a count of blood cells.

    "Too many red," Klein explained, "means bleeding. And too many white would mean infection."

    He was looking in particular for a fungus infection that was often the cause of chronic bizarre behavior. And again drew a blank.

    At the last, Klein tested the fluid's sugar content.

    "How come?" Chris asked him intently.

    "Well, now, the spinal sugar," he told her, "should measure two-thirds of the amount of blood sugar. Anything significantly under that ratio would mean a disease in which the bacteria eat the sugar in the spinal fluid. And if so, it could account for her symp-toms."

    But he failed to find it.

    Chris shook her head and folded her arms. "Here we are again, folks," she murmured bleakly.

    For a while Klein brooded. Then at last he turned and looked to Chris. "Do you keep any drugs in your house?" he asked her.

    "Huh?"

    "Amphetamines? LSD?"

    "Gee, no. Look, I'd tell you. No, there's nothing like that."

    He nodded and stared at his shoes, then looked up and said, "Well–I guess that it's time we consulted a psychiatrist, Mrs. MacNeil."

She was back in the house at exactly 7: 21 P. M., and at the door she called, "Sharon?"

    Sharon wasn't there.

    Chris went upstairs to Regan's bedroom. Still heavily asleep. Not a ruffle in her covers. Chris noticed that the window was open wide. An odor of urine. Sharon must've opened it to air out the room; she thought. She closed it. Where did she go?

    Chris returned downstairs just as Willie came in.

    "Hi ya, Willie. Any fun today?"

    "Shopping. Movies."

    "Where's Karl?"

    Willie made a gesture of dismissal. "He lets me see the Beatles this time. By myself."

    "Good work."

    Willie held up her fingers in a V. The time was 7: 35.

    At 8: 01, while Chris was in the study talking to her agent on the phone, Sharon walked through the door with several packages, and then flopped in a chair and waited.

    "Where've you been?" asked Chris when she'd finished.

    "Oh, didn't he tell you?"

    "Oh, didn't who tell me?"

    "Burke. Isn't he here? Where is he?"

    "He was here?"

    "You mean he wasn't when you got home?"

    "Listen, start all over," said Chris.

    "Oh, that nut," Sharon chided with a headshake. "I couldn't get the druggist to deliver, so when Burke came around, I thought, fine, he can stay here with -Regan while I go get the Thorazine." She shrugged. "I should have known."

    'Yeah, you should've. And so what did you buy?"

    "Well, since I thought I had the time, I went and bought a rubber drawsheet for her bed." She displayed it.

    "Did you eat?"

    "No, I thought I'd fix a sandwich. Would you like one?"

    "Good idea. Let's go and eat."

    "What happened with the tests?" Sharon asked as they walked slowly to the kitchen.