The Exorcist

He leaned closer. "Can you talk?"

Slowly Karras reached his hand to Dyer's wrist. Staring fixedly, he clutched it. Briefly squeezed.

Dyer fought back the tears. He leaned closer and put his mouth next to Karras' ear. "Do you want to make your confession now, Damien?"

A squeeze.

"Are you sorry for all of the sins of your life and for having offended Almighty God?"

A squeeze.

Now Dyer leaned back and as he slowly traced the sign of the cross over Karras, he recited the words of absolution: "Ego te absolvo..."

An enormous tear rolled down from a corner of Karras' eye, and now Dyer felt his wrist being squeezed even harder, continuously, as he finished the absolution: "... in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

Dyer leaned over again with his mouth next to Karras' ear. Waited. Forced the swelling from his throat. And then murmured, "Are you...?" He stopped short as the pressure on his wrist abruptly slackened. He pulled back his head and saw the eyes filled with peace; and with something else: something mysteriously like joy at the end of heart's longing. The eyes were still staring. But at nothing in this world. Nothing here.

Slowly and tenderly, Dyer slid the eyelids down. He heard the ambulance wail from afar. He began to say, "Good-bye," but could not finish. He lowered his head and wept.

The ambulance arrived. They put Karras an a stretcher, and as they were loading him aboard, Dyer climbed in and sat beside the intern. He reached over and took Karras' hand.

"There's nothing you can do for him now, Father," said the intern in a kindly voice. "Don't make it harder on yourself. Don't come."

Dyer held his gaze on that chipped, torn face. He shook his head.

The intern looked up to the ambulance rear door, where the driver was waiting patiently. He nodded. The ambulance door went up with a click.

From the sidewalk, Sharon watched stunned as the ambulance slowly drove away. She heard murmurs from the bystanders.

"What happened?"

"Who knows, buddy? Who the hell knows?"

The wail of the ambulance siren lifted shrill into night above the river until the driver remembered that time no longer mattered. He cut it off. The river flowed quiet again, reaching toward a gentler shore.

EPILOGUE

Late June sunlight streamed through the window of Chris's bedroom. She folded a blouse on top of the contents of the suitcase and closed the lid. She moved quickly toward the door. "Okay, that's all of it," she said to Karl, and as the Swiss came forward to lock the suitcase, she went out into the hall and toward Regan's bedroom. "Hey, Rags, how ya comin'?"

It was now six weeks since the deaths of the priests. Since the shock. Since the closed investigation by Kinderman. And still there were no answers. Only haunting speculation and frequent awakenings from sleep in tears. The death of Merrin had been caused by coronary artery disease. But as for Karras... "Baffling," Kinderman had wheezed. Not the girl, he'd decided. She'd been firmly secured by restraining straps and sheet. Obviously, Karras had ripped away the shutters, leaping through the window to deliberate death. But why? Fear? An attempt to escape something horrible? No. Kinderman had quickly ruled it out. Had he wished to escape, he could have gone out the door. Nor was Karras in any case a man who would run.

But then why the fatal leap?

For Kinderinan, the answer began to take shape in a statement by Dyer making mention of Karras' emotional conflicts: his guilt about his mother; her death; his problem of faith; and when Kinderman added to these the continuous lack of sleep for several days; the concern and the guilt over Regan's imminent death; the demonic attacks in the form of his mother; and finally, the shock of Merrin's death, he sadly concluded that Karras' mind had snapped, had been- shattered by the burden of guilts he could no longer endure. Moreover, in investigating Dennings' death, the detective had learned from his readings on possession that exorcists frequently became possessed, and through just such causes as might here have been present: strong feelings of guilt and the need to be punished, added to the power of autosuggestion. Karras had been ripe. And the sounds of struggle, the priest's altered voice heard by both Chris and Sharon, these seemed to lend weight to the detective's hypothesis.

But Dyer had refused to accept it. Again and again he returned to the house during Regan's convalescence to talk to Chris. He asked over and over again if Regan was now able to recall what had happened in the bedroom that night. But the answer was always a headshake; or a no; and finally the case was closed.

Now Chris poked her head into Regan's bedroom; saw her daughter with two stuffed animals in her clutch, staring down with a child's discontent at the packed, open suitcase on her bed. "How are you coming with your packing, honey?" Chris asked her.

Regan looked up. A little wan. A little gaunt. A little dark beneath the eyes. "There's not enough room in this thing!" She frowned.

"Well, you can't take it sill, now, sweetheart. Leave it, and Willie will bring the rest. Come on, baby; hurry or we'll miss our plane."

They were catching an afternoon flight to Los Angeles, leaving Sharon and the Engstrom to close up the house. Then Karl would drive the Jaguar cross-country back home.

"Oh, okay." Regan pouted mildly.

"That's my baby." Chris left her and went quickly down the stairs. As she got to the bottom, the door chimes rang. She opened the door.

"Hi, Chris." It was Father Dyer. "Just come by to say so long."

"Oh, I'm glad. I was just going to call you myself." She stepped back. "Come on in."

"No, that's all right, Chris; I know you're in a hurry."

She took his hand and drew him in. "Oh, please! I was just about to have a cup of coffee."

"Well, if you're sure..."

She was. They went to the kitchen, where they sat at the table, drank coffee, spoke pleasantries, while Sharon and the Engstrom bustled back and forth. Chris spoke of Merrin: how awed and surprised she had been at seeing the notables and foreign dignitaries at his funeral. Then they were silent together while Dyer stared down into his cup, into sadness. Chris read his thought. "She still can't remember," she said gently. "I'm sorry."

Still downcast, the Jesuit nodded. Chris glanced to her breakfast plate. Too nervous and excited, she hadn't eaten. The rose was still there. She picked it up and pensively twisted it, rolling it back and forth by the stem. "And he never even knew her," she murmured absently. Then she held the rose still and flicked her eyes at Dyer. Saw him staring. "What do you think really happened?" he asked softly. "As a nonbeliever. Do you thinly she was really possessed?"

She pondered, looking down, still toying with the rose. "Well, like you say... as far as God goes, I am a nonbeliever. Still am. But when it comes to a devil---well, that's something else. I could buy that. I do, in fact. I do. And it isn't just what happened to Rags. I mean, generally." She shrugged. "You come to God and you have to figure if there is one, then he must need a million years' sleep every night or else he tends to get irritable. Know what I mean? He never talks. But the devil keeps advertising, Father. The devil does lots of commercials."

For a moment Dyer looked at her, and then said quietly, "But if all of the evil in the world makes you think that there might be a devil, then how do you account for all the good in the world?"

The thought made her squint as she held his gaze. Then she dropped her eyes. "Yeah... yeah," she murmured softly. "That's a point." The sadness and shock of Karras' death settles down on her mood like a melancholy haze. Yet through it, she saw a speckled point of light, and tried to focus on it, remembering Dyer as he had walked her to her car at the cemetery after Karras' funeral. "Can you come to the house for a while?" she'd asked him. "Oh, I'd like to, but I can't miss the feast," he replied. She looked puzzled. "When a Jesuit dies," he explained to her, "we always have a feast. For him it's a beginning, so we celebrate."

Chris had another thought. "You said Father Karras had a problem with his faith."

Dyer nodded.

"I can't believe that," she said. "I've never seen such faith in my life."

"Taxi here, madam."- Chris came out of her reverie. "Thanks, Karl. Okay." She and Dyer stood up. "No, you stay, Father. I'll be right down. I'm just going upstairs get Rags."

He nodded absently and watched her leave. He was thinking of Karras' puzzling last words, the shouts overheard from below before his death. There was something there. What was it? He didn't know. Both Chris's and Sharon's recollections had been vague. But now he thought once again of that mysterious look of joy in Karras' eyes. And something else, suddenly remembered: a deep and fiercely shining glint of... triumph? He wasn't sure, yet oddly he felt lighter. Why lighter? he wondered.

He walked to the entry hall. Hands in his pockets, he leaned against the doorway and watched as Karl helped stow luggage in the cab. It was humid and hot and he wiped his brow, then turned at the sound of footsteps coming down the staircase. Chris and Regan, hand in hand. They came toward him. Chris kissed his cheek. Then she held her hand to it, probing his eyes tenderly.

"It's all right," he said. Then he shrugged. "I've got a feeling it's all right."

She nodded. "I'll call you from L. A. Take care."

Dyer glanced down at Regan. She was frowning at him, as at a sudden remembrance of forgotten concern. Impulsively, she reached up her arms to him. He leaned over and she kissed him. Then she stood for a moment, still staring at him oddly. No, not at him: at his round Roman collar.

Chris looked away. "Come on," she said huskily, taking Regan's hand. "We'll be late, hon. Come on."

Dyer watched as they moved away. Returned Chris's wave. Saw her blow a kiss, then pile quickly after Regan into the cab. And as Karl climbed in front beside the driver, Chris waved again through the window. The taxi pulled away. Dyer walked over to the curb. Watched. Soon the cab turned a corner and was gone.

From across the street, he heard a squeal of brakes. He looked. A police car. Kinderman emerging. The detective moved slowly around the car and waddled toward Dyer. He waved. "I came to say good-bye."

"You just missed them."

Kinderman stopped in his tracks, crestfallen, "They're gone?"

Dyer nodded.

Kinderman looked down the street and shook his head. Then he glanced up at Dyer. "How's the girl?"

"She seemed fine."

"Ah, that's good. Very good. Well, that's all that's important." He looked away. "Well, back to business," he wheezed. "Back to work. Bye, now, Father.-" He turned and took a step toward the squad car, then stopped and turned back to stare speculatively at Dyer. "You go to films, Father Dyer? You like them?"

"Oh, sure."

"I get passes." He hesitated for a moment. "In fact, I've got a pass for the Crest tomorrow night. you'd like to go?"

Dyer had his hands in his pockets, "What's playing?"

"Wuthering Heights"

"Who's in it?"

"Heathcliff, Jackie Gleason, and in the role Cathrine Earnshaw, Lucille Ball. You're happy?"

"I've seen it," said Dyer without expression.

Kinderman stared limply for a moment. Looked away. "Another one," he murmured. Then he stepped to the sidewalk, hooked an arm through Dyer's and slowly started walking him down the street. "I'm reminded of a line in the film Casablanca," he said fondly. "At the end Humphrey Bogart says to Claude Rains: 'Louie---I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.' "

"You know, you look a little bit like Bogart."

"You noticed."

In forgetting, they were trying to remember.

The End