The Dark on the Other Side Page 22

  The sound of knocking roused him, after a timeless interval of sheer despair; and he was, somehow, not surprised to realize that his lips were moving soundlessly in words he hadn’t used since childhood. He moved like a machine to answer the door. Neither hope nor fear drove him; he was simply geared to accept, and deal with, whatever was there.

  For a few seconds after he had opened the door he stood with his mouth slightly ajar, assessing the man on the threshold as he might have studied a perfect stranger. The tall, spare figure and unlined face; the odd, silvery-gray eyes and the close-cropped hair that was a matching silver…Galen had been gray ever since Michael had known him. He carried a light suitcase and a top-coat. No hat. Galen never wore a hat.

  Michael stepped back, throwing the door wide.

  “How did you know I wanted you?” he asked.

  “I called from the airport,” Galen said prosaically. He threw his coat onto a chair and put his case down on the floor beside it. “Henry said you’d been phoning all day.”

  His gaze swept the room and returned to Michael; and the latter was conscious of his appearance, which was both haggard and unkempt. He ran his hand self-conciously over the stubble of beard on his jaw and glanced down at his unspeakable shirt-rumpled, sweat-stained, dirty-before meeting Galen’s eyes.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” he said inadequately.

  “Why?”

  Michael opened his mouth, and closed it again. Coherent explanation was beyond him.

  “You might as well see the worst,” he said. “Come into the bedroom.”

  He had always admired Galen’s phlegm, and wondered what degree of shock it would take to startle him out of it. He found out. Galen paled visibly at the sight that met his eyes.

  Flat on the bed, arms outstretched and bound, ankles tied to the footboard, Linda looked like a character out of one of the books Michael never read, much less wrote. Apparently she had recognized Galen’s voice; she was not surprised to see him, but she blushed slightly as the incredulous gray eyes swept over her.

  “It isn’t what you think,” she said.

  “I’m not sure what I think.” Galen sat down in the nearest chair. “Give me a minute to catch my breath. Michael…”

  Michael talked. It was an unspeakable relief; he knew how Linda had felt all those months, bottling up her fears. He talked without critical intent or editing, mixing theory and fact, interpretation and actuality. And Galen listened. He blinked, a little more often than was normal, but his face had smoothed out into its professional mask. Michael finished with an account of the mental attack he had just experienced. Linda, who was hearing this for the first time, gasped audibly, but Galen went on nodding.

  “Well, well,” he said, after Michael’s voice had stopped. “No wonder you look like hell.”

  “Is that all you can say?”

  “What do you want me to say?” He glanced from one of them to the other, and smiled faintly. “If it comes to that-what do you want me to do? Put on my wizard’s robes and exorcise the devil?”

  Michael sat down on the bed. He grinned.

  “I rather expected you to put in a call for the men in the white coats, and order rooms for two.”

  “I may yet,” Galen said coolly. “You realize-neither of you is unintelligent-that everything you’ve told me can be explained in terms of pathological mental conditions?”

  Michael glanced apprehensively at Linda and was reassured by what he saw. The strain, the underlying fear were still there, but Galen’s comment had not shaken her. She had anticipated it. Perversely, he was moved to marshal the very arguments he had once demolished himself.

  “Andrea’s death?”

  Galen shrugged.

  “The phenomenon is sometimes called thanatomania. With the heart condition you mentioned, the result was virtually a foregone conclusion. I’ve seen several cases myself where there was no diagnosable organic weakness. You must have read the newspaper accounts, a few years ago, of an excellent example of thanatomania. The woman had been told, by a soothsayer, that she would die on a certain date. She died. In a modern hospital, under professional care.”

  “I read about it,” Michael admitted unwillingly. “What about the dog, then? I saw it too.”

  “Then the dog is a collective hallucination, or a real dog.”

  “Hallucinations don’t bite,” Michael said.

  Galen glanced at the dirty bandage on his arm.

  “I’ll have a look at that later,” he said calmly. “Aside from my concern, personal and professional, for your physical health, I’d like to examine the marks.”

  Bemused by fatigue and relief, Michael grappled with that one for several seconds before he understood enough to get angry.

  “Another example of thanatomania?” he said sarcastically.

  Galen’s tone of annoyance was indicative; he usually had better control of himself.

  “Good God Almighty, Michael, do I have to synopsize the professional journals? You’ve read enough of the popular literature to know that patients have inflicted everything from fake stigmata to signs of rape on themselves, in order to prove whatever point they feel they must make. And don’t try to tell me you aren’t deeply enough involved, emotionally, with Mrs. Randolph, to be suggestible.”

  Linda spoke for the first time.

  “So involved that he would be forced to concoct a crazy theory in order to excuse my attempt to kill him.” It was a statement, not a question. Galen nodded, watching her. She went on calmly, “Yes, I can understand that kind of reasoning. But I do have one question, Doctor. Why did you give Michael his father’s letters?”

  Galen’s slow, close-lipped smile spread across his face.

  “The first sensible question anyone has asked yet,” he said. “The answer is complex, however. I suggest we adjourn.”

  “Where?” Michael asked.

  “My house, naturally. I want to have a look at that arm. And I agree that, for whatever reason, this atmosphere is unhealthy for both of you. Pack a bag, Michael, while I untie Mrs. Randolph.”

  Michael turned to obey, but he was diverted by the spectacle of Galen, every professional hair in place, calmly untying the knots that bound Linda to the bed. Glancing up, Galen met his eyes and smiled affably.

  “This is not, by any means, my most unusual experience,” he said, and turned his attention back to his work.

  Chapter 11

  I

  “NOT SELF-INFLICTED,” GALEN SAID.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Michael rolled down his sleeve. Linda knew he had been trying not to wince; Galen’s poking and probing, which appeared to be prompted more by a spirit of scientific inquiry than concern for his patient’s pains, must have hurt more than the original dressing of the wound.

  Galen leaned back in his chair.

  “Unless you found a cooperative dog,” he qualified.

  Linda bit back the comment that was on the tip of her tongue. She did not have Michael’s lifelong experience with the older man, which had apparently given him a childlike faith in the great father figure. She had welcomed Galen’s appearance for two reasons: first as an ally, who would help guard Michael from herself, and, second, as the key to the final door through which she meant to pass when all other means were exhausted. But although she herself had anticipated and considered every one of Galen’s rational objections, she found them irritating coming from him.

  Glancing around the doctor’s study, she thought she would like the man if she weren’t prejudiced against his profession. The furnishings of the room were so luxurious that they were inobtrusive; every object was so exactly right, in function and design, that it blended into a perfect whole. The exquisite marble head on the bookshelf looked like one she had seen in an Athens museum, but it was not a copy. The rugs were modern Scandinavian designs; their abstract whirls of color went equally well with the classical sculpture, the Monet over the fireplace, and the geometric lines of the rosewood tables and desk. Heavy
hangings, deep chairs, beautiful ornaments-they made up a room of soft lights and warm, bright coloring, as soothing to the nerves as it was stimulating to the senses. Only one object-Linda’s eyes went to the soft couch, piled with cushions; and Galen, who saw everything, smiled at her.

  “I use it more than my patients do,” he said. “Most of them prefer to confront me, face to face.”

  “I didn’t think you ever slept,” Michael said.

  “Catnaps. Like all the other great men of history. Hence the couch, in here.”

  He had a beautiful speaking voice, as modulated and controlled as an actor’s. And used for the same purpose, Linda thought. Fighting the influence of the voice and the room, she returned to the attack.

  “You don’t honestly believe we went looking for a dog and provoked him into attacking Michael?”

  “It does seem unlikely,” Galen admitted.

  “But not impossible?”

  “Trite as it may sound…”

  “Nothing is impossible. Damn you,” Linda said.

  Galen’s fixed smile widened, very slightly, and Linda flung herself out of her chair and began to pace. That was one of the reasons why she hated psychiatrists; she had the feeling that her every action was not only anticipated, but provoked.

  “However,” Galen went on calmly, “unless the evidence to the contrary is strong, I generally prefer the simplest hypothesis.”

  “A real dog,” Michael said.

  “A real dog,” Galen agreed.

  Linda turned, to find both of them watching her. For a moment, the open amusement in Galen’s face almost provoked an outburst; then she saw the strained pallor of Michael’s face, and she dropped into her chair.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You asked me a question,” Galen said. “About the letters. What did you make of them, Michael?”

  “Not much. I was hoping you’d have more to say on the subject.”

  “I do. But I want your interpretation first.”

  “The thing that struck me was the Jonah effect,” Michael said slowly. “The doom and destruction that hit the people closest to Randolph. That, and my father’s inexplicable dislike of him. It was Linda who told me he must have been the head of the witchcraft cult, and thus directly responsible for the death of that boy-”

  “Green. The author of The Smoke of Her Burning.” As they both sat speechless, Galen turned to Linda. “Didn’t you suspect, Mrs. Randolph, that your husband never wrote that book?”

  “I-I don’t know. I never-” Linda rallied. “I guess I did. But not for a long time, and it was never more than a suspicion. I loved the author of that book before I ever met Gordon; I think it was one of the reasons why I loved him. The external brilliance, the polish-Gordon could have done that. What he lacked, what he never could have produced, was the soul of the book-the compassion, the tenderness.”

  Galen nodded. He turned back to Michael.

  “That was what your father suspected, knowing both students as he did. That was what he told me, privately. Of course he could prove nothing. Green had told him he was working on a book, but had never showed him any of the manuscript. He said he wanted to have it complete before he submitted it for criticism.”

  “I should have known,” Michael said, flushed with self-contempt. “I call myself a writer… But there were other things. The campaign speeches, even Kwame’s songs…For a while I played with the idea that he had stolen them from Gordon.”

  “They were not written by the same man; but they were written by the same kind of man,” Galen said. “Despite my reluctance to accept your theories of diabolic possession, I do believe in what you might call mental vampirism-a spiritual blood sucking, a leechlike drain of the intelligence and emotions of others. You’ve met people, I’m sure, who left you feeling drained and depressed after a few hours’ conversation. Usually this is an unconscious demand, but Randolph is quite conscious of what he’s doing. Make no mistake, he was never guilty of ordinary plagiarism. His victims gave him what he wanted, half convinced themselves that it was his work.

  “Eventually, however, the vampire goes too far, and destroys the source from which it draws its vitality. It is symptomatic, not only of Randolph’s effect on others, but of their personality weaknesses, that they should resort to suicide, or some other form of escape, rather than attacking Randolph. For it was not only intellectual brilliance he sought, it was brilliance coupled with a sense of insecurity. You might say, if you were mystically inclined-which I am not-that Randolph was drawn, by a kind of spiritual chemistry, to people of this sort, just as they were attracted to him. The stronger souls-pardon the expression-resisted him. As you did, Mrs. Randolph. He miscalculated with you, possibly because his instincts were confused by a more basic desire. But there lay the danger to you. Randolph literally could not let you go. What he fails to fascinate he must destroy. And eventually he destroys even that which he fascinates.”

  “Then everything he’s done,” Michael muttered, “all his success-a fraud. A gigantic fraud.”

  “Not at all. He has one undeniable talent: Charisma, we call it-the ability to charm and command affection, loyalty. All leaders have it, to some extent, and all of them depend on advisers, speech writers, hired experts, to supply any qualities they may lack. If Randolph had accepted that kind of help, he might have been a successful politician and a good teacher; he is not a stupid man. But he isn’t content with mere competence. A healthy, strong body, and the finest of training, let him excel in the sports he selected-and don’t underestimate the power of that confident personality on his opponents. But he knew that eventually he would lose, when he got into the big leagues, against opponents who were simply better than he was. So he quit.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Michael said. “You’re on our side after all, you old-”

  “I am merely presenting what seems to me, at the moment, the most logical hypothesis. I’ve followed Randolph’s career with some interest, since your father told me his suspicions. I respected his judgment, and I was intrigued by Randolph’s behavior. If your father was correct, there were certain alarming tendencies… Well. Candidly, I was relieved when he decided to give up his political career.”

  Michael opened his mouth to speak, but Linda forestalled him.

  “So you believe in a perfectly materialist, rational explanation.”

  “Yes. Given your husband’s personality, and motives, the rest is clear. The dog is a real dog, manipulated and concealed by Randolph in an attempt to play on your nerves. Your erratic behavior is a result of secretly administered drugs and a form of hypnotic control, intensified by your increasing suggestibility as doubts of your own sanity increased.”

  “But I thought no one could be hypnotized to do something he wouldn’t consciously do.”

  “An error,” Galen said succinctly. “Or, shall we say a great oversimplification.”

  “My attack on Michael-”

  “Posthypnotic suggestion, conditioning…” Galen paused. The Gray eyes appraised her coldly. “I am not saying that your mental and emotional state is normal, at the present time.”

  “I know that,” Linda said. “What I don’t know is how abnormal it is.”

  “You mean, are you still a potential threat to Michael?” Galen pondered the problem without visible emotion. “I would guess that you may well be.”

  “God damn it!” Michael was on his feet, ignoring Linda’s outstretched hand, and Galen’s un-perturbed smile. “Your theory stinks, Galen. Oh, I know, it all makes sense. It even explains why the dog attacked me, and yet left before it did any serious damage. The storm excited it, so that it broke away from its handlers, and they called it back before it could be killed or captured because they didn’t want their supernatural effect ruined. I’ll even admit to hearing a funny whistling sound that might have been Gordon, calling the dog. But your version doesn’t explain Gordon’s motive. Why the elaborate plot? Why all the hocus-pocus? And why me, for God’s sake
?”

  “Your theory isn’t strong on motive either,” Galen pointed out. “The mechanism isn’t that complicated, or obscure; Randolph’s original reason for inviting you to his home had nothing to do with plots, supernatural or otherwise. He may have selected you, in preference to others, because of some amorphous idea of getting back at your father, who was one of the few people who never succumbed to the myth; after that, the development of the relationship between you and Mrs. Randolph would give even a balanced mind cause for dislike. What do you consider a motive, anyway? Four million dollars? You’re talking about human behavior, which is difficult enough to comprehend even in so-called normal individuals. People have committed murder over a dirty plate, or a sum as small as three dollars.”

  “All right, all right,” Michael said irritably. “Stop talking down to me. I’ll accept any hypothesis you shove at me, if you’ll just tell me what to do about it.”

  “You know better than to ask me for advice.”

  “Professional reticence?” Linda asked, too politely.

  “Professionally I’m full of advice. As a human being I’ll be damned if I will take on the combined role of leaning post and punching bag. Make your own decisions and kick yourself if they turn out badly.”

  “There’s something you may not know,” Michael said. His voice was quiet, but he was furious; Linda knew him well enough now to recognize the signs. “If Randolph were just our personal Nemesis, you’d be justified in staying out of this. But he is planning to go back into politics. That’s a fact; I’ve checked it out. By your own description he’s a paranoidal maniac with enormous charm. Does that remind you of any other political figure in recent history? Gordon isn’t a runty paperhanger with a funny moustache; he’s got a lot more on the ball.”