Soon the crying subsided and he helped her sit up. He brought her water and a box of tissues he'd found on a shelf behind the bar. Then he sat down beside her.

"Oh, I'm glad," she said, sniffling and blowing her nose. "God, I'm glad I got it out."

Karras was in turmoil, his own shock of realization increasing, the calmer she grew. Quiet sniffles now. Intermittent catches in the throat. And now the weight was on his back again,

heavy and oppressive. He inwardly stiffened. No more! Say no more! "Do you want to tell me more?" he asked her gently.

Chris nodded. Exhaled. She wiped at an eye and spoke haltingly, in spasms, of Kinderman; of the book; of her certainty that Dennings had been up in Regan's bedroom; of Regan's great strength; of the Dennings personality that Chris thought she had seen with the head turned around and facing backward.

She finished. Now she waited for Karras' reaction. For a time he did not speak as he thought it all over. Then at last he said softly, "You don't know that she did it." "But the head turned around," said Chris.

"You'd hit your own head pretty hard against the wall," Karras answered. "You were also in shock. You imagined it."

"She told me that she did it," Chris intoned without expression.

A pause. "And did she tell you how?" Karras asked.

Chris shook her head. He turned and looked at her. "No," she said. "No."

"Then it doesn't mean a thing," Karras told her. "No, it wouldn't mean a thing unless she gave you details that no one else could conceivably know but the killer."

She was shaking her head in doubt. "I don't know," she answered. "I don't know if I'm doing what's right. I think she did it and she could kill someone else. I don't know...." She paused.

"Father, what should I do?" she asked him hopelessly.

The weight was now set in concrete; in drying, it had shaped itself to his back.

He rested an elbow on his knee and closed his eyes. "Well, you've told someone now," he said quietly. "You've done what you should. Now forget it. Just put it away and leave it all up to me."

He felt her gaze on him and looked at her. "Are you feeling any better now?" She nodded.

"Will you do me a favor?" he asked her.

"What?"

"Go out and see a movie."

She wiped at an eye with the back of her hand and smiled. "I hate 'em."

"Then go visit a friend."

She put her hands in her lap and looked at him warmly. "Got a friend right here," she said at last.

He smiled. "Get some rest," he advised her.

"I will."

He had another thought. "You think Dennings brought the book upstairs? Or was it there?" "I think it was already there," Chris answered.

He considered this. Then he stood up. "Well, okay. You need the car?"

"No, you keep it."

"All right, then. I'll be back to you later."

"Ciao,

Father."

"Ciao."

He walked out in the street brimming turmoil. Churning. Regan. Dennings. Impossible! No!

Yet there was Chris's near conviction, her reaction, her hysteria. And that's just what it: hysterical imagining. And yet... He chased certainties like leaves in a knifing wind.

As he passed by the long flight of steps near the house, he heard a sound from below, by the river. He stopped and looked down toward the C&O Canal. A harmonica. Someone playing

"Red River Valley," since boyhood Karras' favorite song. He listened until traffic noise drowned it out, until his drifting reminiscence was shattered by a world that was now and in torment, that was shrieking for help, dripping blood on exhaust fumes. He thrust his hands into his pockets. Thought feverishly. Of Chris. Of Regan. Of Lucas aiming kicks at Tranquille. He must do something. What? Could he hope to outguess the clinicians at Barringer? "...go to Central Casting!" Yes; yes, he knew that was the answer; the hope. He remembered the case of Achille. Possessed. Like Regan, he had called himself a devil; like Regan, his disorder had been rooted in guilt; remorse over marital infidelity. The psychologist Janet had effected a cure by hypnotically suggesting the presence of the wife; who appeared to Achille's hallucinated eyes and solemnly forgave him. Karras nodded.

Suggestion could work for Regan. But not through hypnosis. They had tried that at Barringer.

No. The counteracting suggestion for Regan, he believed, was the ritual of exorcism. She knew what it was; knew its effect. Her reaction to the holy water. Got that from the book. And in the book, there were descriptions of successful exorcisms. It could work! It could! It could work!

But how to get permission from the Chancery Office? How to build up a case without mention of Dennings? Karras could not lie to the Bishop. Would not falsify the facts.

But you can let the facts speak for themselves!

What facts?

He ran a hand across his brow. Needed sleep. Could not sleep. He felt his temples pound in headache. "Hello, Daddy?" What facts?

The tapes at the Institute. What would Frank find? Was there anything he could find? No. But who knew? Regan hadn't known holy water from tap water. Sure. But if supposedly she's able to read my mind, why is it she didn't know the difference between them? He put a hand to his forehead. The headache. Confusion. Jesus, Karras, wake up! Someone's dying! Wake up!

Back in his room, he celled the institute. No Frank. He put down the telephone. Holy Water.

Tap water. Something. He opened up the Ritual to "Instructions to Exorcists": "...evil spirits

...deceptive answers... so it might appear that the afflicted one is in no way possessed..." Karras pondered. Was that it? What the hell are you talking about? What "evil spirit"?

He slammed shut the book and saw the medical records. He reread them, scanning quickly for anything that might help with the Bishop.

Hold it. No history of hysteria. That's something. But weak. Something else. Some discrepancy.

What was it? He dredged desperately through memories of his studies. And then he recalled it.

Not much. But something.

He picked up the phone and called Chris. She sounded groggy.