Pandemonium

days building miniature villages of stone and sand, peopling them with tiny figures, token humans to attract the spirits. And then he destroyed the figures in a symbolic sacrifice.”

I looked up from the book. “And did it work?”

He shrugged. “Evidently.”

“So what do you want me to do? Buy some Legos?”

He laughed. “It might not hurt. But we’ve found that it usually helps just to talk.”

“Talk,” I said skeptically.

“Others have come to us in worse shape. You’d be surprised.”

“Like O’Connell?”

“Siobhan was only eleven when she came to us. She’d been possessed many, many times. The damage . . .” He shook his head. “In some ways the Hellion and the Little Angel are the cruelest of the demons, because they go after the children. But I think we were able to help.”

“Why’d she become a priest then, and not a shrink?”

“I think she found our methods a bit slow, and . . . indirect. We’re scientists. The church promised, Whoosh!” He shook a hand at me.

“Get thee behind me! Boogedy-boogedy.” He laughed again. “It doesn’t work, but it’s quick. All we could offer was the promise of years of research.”

“Sure,” I said, thinking, Years? I didn’t have time for these people either. “Listen, thank you for showing me, well, all this. But I need to get back to bed.” I walked toward the door, making sure to angle around the wheelchair.

As I reached the door the old man called out, “Mr. Pierce.”

“Yes?”

“Siobhan told us you suspect that the barriers between you and your demon are crumbling. Your memories are bleeding over.”

I laughed, embarrassed. “I wasn’t in the best shape last night. I probably said a lot of things that didn’t make sense. I’m just a little stressed out.”

“For good reason.”

O’Connell must have told them everything—the jump into Lew, the memories I shouldn’t have, the wolf-out sessions. My growing fear that the Hellion was knocking down the walls that kept us apart. I ran a hand back through my hair. “Did Jung really paint that thing?”

He nodded.

“Okay.” I turned away from him, took a breath, held it. Some destabilizing emotion threatened to wash me away. Fear, or maybe relief. I exhaled. “Okay.”

“Ah,” the old man said. “You thought you were the only one who’d seen it.”

“Let your arms rest at your sides,” Dr. Waldheim said. “Let your shoulders relax. Good. Now relax the muscles of your jaw, your forehead . . . Good.”

The Other Dr. Waldheim said nothing, but nodded encouragingly. The wheelchair was parked next to him, and beside that was the tripod holding the tiny digital video camera. They’d asked me if I minded recording the session, and it was fine with me; I was interested to see what I looked like under hypnosis.

I had no trouble relaxing—I was dead tired. It had taken me forever to fall asleep last night. O’Connell had finally woken me at noon, fed me take-out deli sandwiches, and led me back to the library, where she left me in the care of the Waldheims. The drapes had been pushed back, and bright lozenges of sunlight warmed the floors. Meg Waldheim’s voice was low and rhythmic, almost a murmur.

“You’re not going to lose control, Del. You’re not going to hurt anyone. You can come back any time. Do you understand?”

I said, “Sure.” At least I think I did. I may have only nodded. Dr. Waldheim said, “All right, Del. Let us talk to the Hellion.”

The doctor, it turned out, was wrong about several things. The next time I opened my eyes—when did I close my eyes?—I was wedged into a corner of the room, the edge of a bookshelf sharp against the back of my head, and books heavy on my chest and shoulders, spilled around and under my arms . . . and the Waldheims were