"Come in."
It was Dyer. "Hey, Chris MacNeil was trying to reach you. She ever get hold of you?"
"When? You mean, tonight?"
"No, this afternoon."
"Oh, yes, I spoke to her."
"Good," said Dyer. "Just wanted to be sure you got the message."
The diminutive priest was prowling the room now, picking at objects like an elf in a thrift shop.
"What do you need, Joe?" Karras asked him.
"Got any lemon drops?"
"What?"
"I've looked all through the hall for some lemon drops. Nobody's got any. Boy, I really crave one," Dyer brooded, still prowling. "I once spent a year hearing children's confessions, and I wound up a lemon-drop junkie. I got hooked. The little bastards keep breathing it on you along with all that pot. Between the two, it's addictive, I think." He lifted the lid of a pipetobacco humidor where Karras had stored some pistachio nuts. "What are these--- dead
Mexican jumping beans?"
Karras turned to his bookshelves, looking for a title. "Listen, Joe, I've got a---"
"Isn't that Chris really nice?"' interrupted Dyer, flopping on the bed. He stretched full length with his hands clasped comfortably behind his head. "Nice lady. Have you met her?"
"We've talked," answered Karras, plucking out a green-bound volume called Satan, a collection of articles and Catholic position papers by various French theologians. He carried it back with him toward the desk, "Look I've really got to---"
"Plain. Down-to-earth. Unaffected," continued Dyer. "She can help us with my plan for when we both quit the priesthood."
"Who's quitting the priesthood?"
"Faggots. In droves. Basic black has gone out. Now, I---"
"Joe, I've got a lecture to prepare for tomorrow," said Karras as he set down the books on his desk.
"Yeah, okay. Now my plan is we go to Chris MacNeil--- got the picture?--- with this notion that I've got for a screenplay based on the life of Saint Ignatius Loyola. The title is Brave Jesuits Marching, and---"
"Would you get your ass out of here, Joe?" prodded Karras, tamping out his cigarette butt in an ashtray.
"Is this boring?"
"I've got work to do."
"Who the hell's stopping you?"
"Come on, now, I mean it." Karras had started to unbutton his shirt. "I'm going to jump in the shower and then I've got to work."
"Didn't see you at dinner, by the way," said Dyer, rising reluctantly from the bed. "Where'd you eat?"
"I didn't"
"That's foolish. Why diet when you only wear frocks?" He had come to the desk add was smiling at a cigarette. "Stale."
"Is there a tape recorder here in the hall?"
'There isn't even a lemon drop here in the hall. Use the language lab."
"Who's got a key? Father President?"
"No. Father Janitor. You need it tonight?"
"Yes, I do," said Karras, as he draped his shirt on the back of the desk chair. "Where do I find him?"
"Want me to get it for you?"
"Could you do that? I'm really in a bind."
"No sweat, Great Beatific Jesuit Witch Doctor. Coming." Dyer opened the door and walked out.
**********
Karras showered and then dressed in a T-shirt and trousers. Sitting down to his desk, he discovered a carton of Camel nonfilters, and beside it a key that was labeled LANGUAGE
LAB and another tagged REFECTORY REFRIGERATOR. Appended to the latter was a note: Better you than the rats. Karras smiled at the signature: The Lemon Drop Kid. He put the note aside, then unfastened is wristwatch and plated it in front of him on the desk. The time was 10:58 P.M. He began to read. Freud. McCasland. Satan. Oesterreich's exhaustive study. And at a little after 4 A.M., he had finished. Was rubbing at his face. At his eyes. They were smarting. He glanced at the ashtray. Ashes and the twisted butts of cigarettes. Smoke hanging thick in the air. He stood up and walked wearily to a window. Slid it open. He gulped at the coolness of the moist morning air and stood there thinking. Regan had the physical syndrome of possession. That much he knew. About that he had no doubt. For in case after case, irrespective of geography or period of history, the symptoms of possession were substantially constant. Some Regan had not evidenced as yet: stigmata; the desire for repugnant foods; the insensitivity to pain; the frequent loud and irrepressible hiccuping. But the others she had manifested clearly: the involuntary motor excitement; foul breath; furred tongue; the wasting away of the frame; the distended stomach; the irritations of the skin and mucous-membrane.
And most significantly present were the basic symptoms of the hard core of cases which Oesterreich had characterized as "genuine" possession: the striking change in the voice and in the features, plus the manifestation of a new personality.
