He slid the pad across the table to Sharon. "In the Meantime, she's sleeping, so you could start her on a Sustagen feeding."

"Okay." Sharon nodded. "I will." Spooning soup, she turned the pad around and looked at the list."

Karras watched her. Then he frowned in concentration. "You're her tutor."

"Yes, that's right."

"Have you taught her any Latin?"

She was puzzled. "No, I haven't."

"Any German?"

"Only French."

"What level? La plume de ma tante?"

"Pretty much."

"But no German or Latin."

"Huh-nh, no."

"But the Engstroms, don't they sometimes speak German?"

"Oh, sure."

"Around Regan?"

She shrugged. "I suppose." She stood up and took her plates to the sink. "As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure."

"Have you ever studied Latin?" Karras asked her.

"No, I haven't."

"But you'd recognize the general sound."

"Oh, I'm sure." She rinsed the soup bowl and put it in the rack.

"Has she ever spoken Latin in your presence?"

"Regan?"

"Since her illness."

"No, never."

"Any language at all?" probed Karras.

She tuned off the faucet, thoughtful. "Well, I might have imagined it, I guess, but..."

"What?"

"Well, I think..." She frowned. "Well, I could have sworn I heard her talking in Russian." Karras stared. "Do you speak it?" he asked her, throat dry.

She shrugged. "Oh, well, so-so." She began to fold the dishcloth: "I just studied it in college, that's all. "

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, selfconscioius, and swiftly left the entry.

Karras watched, remembering hin 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.