"Then here, take mine," said the gray-haired Jesuit, unbuttoning the coat. "I should like you to go to the residence, Damien, and gather up a cassock for myself, two surplices, a purple stole, some holy water and two copies of The Roman Ritual." He handed the raincoat to the puzzled Karras. "I believe we should begin."
Karras frowned. "You mean now? Right away?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Don't you want to hear the backgrqund of the case first, Father?"
"Why?"
Merrin's brows were knitted in earnestness.
Karras realized that he had no answer. He averted his gaze from those disconcerting eyes.
"Right," he said. He was slipping on the raincoat and turning away. "I'll go and get the things."
Karl made a dash across the room, got ahead of Karras and pulled the front door open for him.
They exchanged brief glances, and then Karras stepped out into the rainy night. Merrin glanced back to Chris. "You don't mind if we begin right away?" he asked softly.
She'd been watching him, glowing with relief at the feeling of decision and direction and command rushing in like a shout in sunlit day. "No, I'm glad," she said gratefully. "You must be tired, though, Father."
He saw her anxious gaze flick upward toward the raging of the demon.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?" she was asking. "It's fresh." Insistent. Faintly pleading.
"It's hot. Wouldn't you like some; Father?"
He saw the hands lightly clasping, unclasping; the deep caverns of her eyes. "Yes, I wonld," he said warmly. "Thank you." Something heavy had been gently brushed aside; told to wait. "If you're sure it's no trouble..."
She led him to the kitchen and soon he was leaning against the stove with a mug of black coffee in his hand.
"Want some brandy in it Father?" Chris held up the bottle.
He bent his head and looked down into the mug without expression. "Well, the doctors say I shouldn't," he said. And then he held out the mug. "But thank God, my will is weak." Chris paused for a moment, unsure, then saw the smile in his eyes as he lifted his head.
She poured.
"What a lovely name you have," he told her. "Chris MacNeil. It's not a stage name?"
Chris trickled brandy into her coffee and shook hey head. "No, I'm really not Esmerelda Glutz."
"Thank God for that," murmured Merrin.
Chris smiled and sat down. "And what's Lankester, Father? So unusual. Were you named after someone?"
"A cargo ship." he murmured as he stared absently and put the mug to his lips. He sipped.
"Or a bridge. Yes, I suppose it was a bridge." He looked rueful. "Now, Damien," he went on,
"how I wish I had a name like Damien. So lovely."
"Where does that come from, Father? That name?"
"Damien?" He looked down at his cup. "It was the name of a priest who devoted his life to taking can of the lepers on the island of Molokai. He finally caught the disease himself." He paused. "Lovely name," he said again. "I believe that with a first name like Damien, I might even be content with the last name Glutz."
Chris chuckled. She unwound. Felt easier. And for minutes, she and Merrin spoke of homely things, little things. Finally, Sharon appeared the kitchen, and only then did Merrin move to leave. It was as if he had been waiting for her arrival, for immediately he carried his mug to the sink, rinsed it out and placed it carefully in the dish rack. "That was good; that was just what I wanted," he said.
Chris got up and said, "I'll take you to your room."
He thanked her and followed her to the door of the study. "If there's anything you need; Father,"
she said, "let me know."
He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. Chris felt a power and warmth flowing into her. Peace. She felt peace. And an odd sense of ...safety? she wondered.
"You're very kind." His eyes smiled. "Thank you."
He removed his hand and watched her walk away. As soon as she was gone, a tightening pain seemed to clutch at his face. He entered the study and closed the door. From a pocket of his trousers, he slipped out a tin marked Bayer Aspirin, opened it, extracted a nitroglycerin pill and placed it carefully under his tongue.
Chris entered the kitchen. Pausing by the door, she looked at Sharon, who was standing by the stove, the palm of her hand against the percolator as she waited for the coffee to reheat.
Chris went over to her, concerned. "Hey, honey," she said softly. "Why don't you get a little rest?"
No response. Sharon seemed lost in thought. Then she turned and stared blankly at Chris.
"I'm sorry. Did you say something?"
Chris studied the tightness in her face, the distant look. "What happened up there, Sharon?" she asked.
