"The director."

"Oh, that one." He made a gesture of dismissal. "Don't ask. Listen, what are you doing tonight?

Are you busy? I've got passes for the Crest. It's Othello."

"Who's starring?"

"Molly Picon, Desdemona, and Othello, Leo Fuchs. You're happy? This is freebies, Father Marlon Particular! This is William F. Shakespeare! Doesn't matter who's starring, who's not!

Now, you're coming?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to pass. I'm pretty snowed under."

"I can see. You look terrible, you'll pardon my noticing. You're keeping late hours?"

"I always look terrible."

"Only now more than usual. Come on! Get away for one night! We'll enjoy!"

Karras decided to test; to touch a nerve. "Are you sure that's what's playing?" he asked. His eyes were probing steadily into Kinderman's. "I could have sworn there was a Chris MacNeil film at the Crest."

The detective missed a beat, and then said quickly, "No, I'm certain. Othello. It's Othello."

"What brings you to the neighborhood, incidentally?"

"You! I came only to invite you to the film!"

"Yes, it's easier to drive than to pick up a phone," said Karras softly.

The detective's eyebrows lifted in unconvincing innocence. "Your telephone was busy!" he whispered hoarsely, poising an upraised palm in midair.

The Jesuit stared at him, expressionless.

"What's wrong?" asked Kinderman after a moment.

Gravely Karras reached a hand inside the car and lifted Kinderman's eyelid. He examined the eye. "I don't know. You look terrible. You could be coming down with a case of mythomania."

"I don't know what that means," answers Kinderman as Karras withdrew his hand. "Is it serious?"

"Not fatal."

"What is it? The suspense is now driving me crazy!" "Look it up," said Karras.

"Listen, don't be so snotty. You should render unto Caesar just a little, now and then. I'm the law. I could have you deported, you know that?"

"What for?"

"A psychiatrist shouldn't make people worry. Plus also the goyim, plainly speaking, would love it. You're a nuisance to them altogether anyway, Father. No, frankly, you embarrass them. They would love to get rid of you. Who needs it? a priest who wears sweatshirts and sneakers!"

Smiling faintly, Karras nodded. "Got to go. Take care." He tapped a hand on the window frame, twice, in farewell, and then turned and walked slowly toward the entry of the residence.

"See an analyst!" the detective called after him hoarsely. Then his warm look gave way to worry. He glanced through his windshield up at the house, then started the engine and drove up the street. Passing Karras, he honked his horn and waved.

Karras waved back; watching Kinderman round the corner of Thirty-sixth. Then he stood motionless for a while on the sidewalk, rubbing gently at his brow with a trembling hand.

Could she really have done it? Could Regan have murdered Burke Dennings so horribly?

With feverish eyes, he looked up at Regan's window. What in God's name is in that house?

And how much longer before Kinderman demanded to see Regan? had a chance to see the Dennings personality? to hear it? How much longer before Regan would be institutionalized?

Or die?

He had to build the case for the Chancery.

He walked quickly across the street at an angle to Chris's house. He rang the doorbell.

Willie let him in.

"Missiz taking little nap now," she said.

Karras nodded. "Good. Very good." He walked by her and upstairs to Regan's bedroom. He was seeking a knowledge he must clutch by the heart.

He entered and saw Karl in a chair by the window, his arms folded, watching Regan. He was silent and present as a dense, dark wood.

Karras walked up beside the bed and looked down. The whites of the eyes like milky fog. The murmurings. Spells from some other world. Karras glanced at Karl. Then slowly he leaned over and began to unfasten one of Regan's restraining straps.

"Father, no!"

Karl rushed to the bedside and vigorously yanked back the priest's arm. "Very bad, Father!

Strong! It is strong! Leave on straps!"

In the eyes there was a fear that Karras recognized as genuine, and now he knew that Regan's strength was not theory; it was a fact. She could have done it. Could have twisted Dennings'

neck around. My God, Karras! Hurry! Find some evidence! Think! Hurry before...!

"Ich möchte Sie etwas fragen, Engstrom!"

With a stab of discovery and hot-surging hope, Karras jerked around his head and looked down at the bed. The demon grinned mockingly at Karl. "Tanzt Ihre Tochter gern?"

German! It had asked if Karl's daughter liked to dance! His heart pounding, Karras turned and saw that the servant's cheeks had flushed crimson; that he trembled, that his eyes glared with fury. "Karl, you'd better step outside," Karras advised him.

The Swiss shook his head, his hands squeezed into white-knuckled fists. "No, I stay!" "You will go, please," the Jesuit said firmly. His gaze held Karl's implacably.

After a moment of dogged resistance, Karl gave way and hurried from the room.

The laughter had stopped. Karras turned back. The demon was watching him. It looked pleased.