"Gee, I'm sure she's asleep."

"I think not."

"Well, if---"

Suddenly, Chris flinched at a sound from above, at the voice of the demon, booming and yet muffled, croaking, like amplified premature burial.

"Merriiiiinnnnnn!"

Then the massive and shiveringly hollow jolt of a single blow against the bedroom wall.

"God almighty!" Chris breathed as she clutched a pale hand against her chest. Stunned, she looked at Merrin. The priest hadn't moved. He was still staring upward, intense and yet serene, and in his eyes there was not even a hint of surprise. It was more, Chris thought, like recognition.

Another blow shook the walls.

"Merriiiiinnnnnnnnnn!''

The Jesuit moved slowly forward, oblivious of Chris, who was gaping in wonder; of Karl, stepping lithe and incredulous from the study; of Karras, emerging bewildered from the kitchen while the nightmarish poundings and croakings continued. He went calmly up the staircase, slender hand like alabaster sliding upward on the banister.

Karras came up beside Chris, and together they watched from below as Merrin entered Regan's bedroom and closed the door behind him. For a time there was silence. Then abruptly the demon laughed hideously and Merrin came out. He closed the door and started down the hall.

Behind him, the bedroom door opened again and Sharon poked her head out, staring after him, an odd expression on her face.

The Jesuit descended the staircase rapidly and put out his hand to the waiting Karras.

"Father Karras..."

"Hello, Father."

Merrin had clasped the other priest's hand in both of his; he was squeezing it, searching Karras'

face with a look of gravity and concern, while upstairs the laughter turned to vicious, obscenities directed at Merrin. "You look terribly tired," he said "Are you tired?"

"Not at all. Why do you ask?"

"Do you have your raincoat with you?"

Karras shook his head and said, "No."

"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."