“We’ll try,” she murmured, still covering his hand with her own. “What else can we do, Nick?”
“What’s done I’ll do alone, Pat.”
“But I want to help!”
“I’ll not let you, Dear. I won’t have you exposed to a repetition of those indignities, or perhaps worse!”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then I am, Pat! I won’t have it!”
“But what’ll you do?”
“I’ll go away. I’ll battle the thing through once for all, and I’ll either come back free of it or—” He paused and the girl did not question him further, but sat staring at him with troubled eyes.
“I won’t write you, Pat,” he continued. “If you should receive a letter from me, burn it—don’t read it. It might be from—the other, a trap or a lure of some sort. Promise me! You’ll promise that, won’t you?”
She nodded; there was a glint of tears in her eyes.
“And I don’t want you to wait, Pat,” he proceeded. “I don’t want you to feel that you have any obligations to me—God knows you’ve nothing to thank me for! When—If I come back and you haven’t changed, then we’ll try again.”
“Nick,” she said in a small voice, “how do you know the—the other won’t come back here? How can you promise for—it?”
“I’m still master!” he said grimly. “I won’t be dominated long enough at any time for that to happen. I’ll fight it down.”
“Then—it’s good-bye?”
He nodded. “But not for always—I hope.”
“Nick,” she murmured, “will you kiss me?” She felt a tear on her cheek. “I’ll stand losing you a little better if I can have a—last kiss—to remember.” Her voice was faltering.
His arms were about her. She yielded herself completely to his caress; the park, the crowd passing a few yards away, the people on near-by benches, were all forgotten, and once more she felt herself alone with Nicholas Devine in a vast empty cosmos.
An insistent voice penetrated her consciousness; she realized that it had been calling her name for some seconds.
“Miss Lane,” she heard, and again, “Miss Lane.” A hand tapped her shoulder; with a sudden start, she tore her lips away, and looked up into a face unrecognized for a moment. Then she placed it. It was the visage of Mueller, Dr. Horker’s companion on that disastrous Saturday night.
CHAPTER 16
Possessed
Pat stared at the intruder in a mingling of embarrassment, perplexity, and indignation. She felt her cheeks reddening as the latter emotion gained the dominance of her mood.
“Well!” she snapped. “What do you want?”
“I thought I’d walk home with you,” Mueller said amiably.
“Walk home with me! Please explain that!” She grasped the arm of Nicholas Devine, who had risen angrily at the interruption. “Sit down, Nick, I know the fellow.”
“So should he,” said Mueller. “Sure; I’ll explain. I’m on a job for Dr. Horker.”
“Spying on me for him, I suppose!” taunted the girl.
“No. Not on you.”
“He means on me,” said Nick soberly. “You can’t blame him, Pat. And perhaps you had better go home; we’ve finished here. There’s nothing more we can do or say.”
“Very well,” she said, her voice suddenly softer. “In a moment, Nick.” She turned to Mueller. “Would you mind telling me why you waited until now to interfere? We’ve been here two hours, you know.”
“Sure I’ll tell you. I got no orders to interfere, that’s why.”
“Then why did you?” queried Pat tartly.
“I didn’t until I saw him there”—he nodded at Nick—“put his arms around you. Then I figured, having no orders, it was time to use my own judgment.”
“If any!” sniffed the girl. She turned again to Nick; her face softened, became very tender. “Honey,” she murmured huskily, “I guess it’s good-bye now. I’ll be fighting with you; you know that.”
“I know that,” he echoed, looking down into her eyes. “I’m almost happy, Pat.”
“When’ll you go?” she whispered in tones inaudible to Mueller.
“I don’t know,” he answered, his voice unchanged. “I’ll have to make some sort of preparations—and I don’t want you to know.”
She nodded. She gazed at him a moment longer with tear-bright eyes. “Good-bye, Nick,” she whispered. She rose on tiptoe, and kissed him very lightly on his lips, then turned and walked quickly away, with Mueller following behind.
She walked on, ignoring him until he halted beside her at the crossing of the Drive. Then she gave him a cold glance.
“Why is Dr. Carl having him watched?” she asked.
Mueller shrugged. “The ins and outs of this case are too much for me,” he said. “I do what I’m paid to do.”
“You’re not watching him now.”
“Nope. Seemed like the Doctor would think it was more important to get you home.”
“You’re wasting your time,” she said irritably as the lights changed and they stepped into the street. “I was going home anyway.”
“Well, now you got company all the way.” Mueller’s voice was placid.
The girl sniffed contemptuously, and strode silently along. The other’s presence irritated her; she wanted time and solitude to consider the amazing story Nicholas Devine had given her. She wanted to analyze her own feelings, and most of all she wanted just a place of privacy to cry out her misery. For now the loss of Nicholas Devine had changed from a fortunate escape to a tragedy, and liar, madman, or devil, she wanted him terribly, with all the power of her tense little heart. So she moved as swiftly as she could, ignoring the silent companionship of Mueller.
They reached her home; the light in the living room window was evidence that the bridge game was still in progress. She mounted the steps, Mueller watching her silently from the walk; she fumbled for her key.
Suddenly she snapped her hand-bag shut; she couldn’t face her mother and the two spinster Brocks and elderly, inquisitive Carter Henderson. They’d suggest that she cut into the game, and they’d argue if she refused, and she couldn’t play bridge now! She glanced at the impassive Mueller, turned and crossed the strip of lawn to Dr. Horker’s residence, where the light still glowed in the library, and rang the bell. She saw the figure on the sidewalk move away as the shadow of the Doctor appeared on the lighted square of the door.
“Hello,” boomed the Doctor amiably. “Come in.”
Pat stalked into the library and threw herself angrily into Dr. Horker’s particular chair. The other grinned, and chose another place.
“Well,” he said, “What touched off the fuse this time?”
“Why are you spying on my friends?” snapped the girl. “By what right?”
“So he’s spotted Mueller, eh? That lad’s diabolically clever, Pat—and I mean diabolic.”
“That’s no answer!”
“So it isn’t,” agreed the Doctor. “Say it’s because I’m acting in loco parentis.”
“And in loco is as far as you’ll get, Dr. Carl, if you’re going to spy on me!”
“On you?” he said mildly. “Who’s spying on you?”
“On us, then!”
“Or on us?” queried the Doctor. “I set Mueller to watch the Devine lad. Have you by some mischance broken your promise to me?”
Pat flushed. She had forgotten that broken promise; the recollection of it suddenly took the wind from her sails, placed her on the defensive.
“All right,” she said defiantly. “I did; I admit it. Does that excuse you?”
“Perhaps it helps to explain my actions, Pat. Don’t you understand that I’m trying to protect you? Do you think I hired Mueller out of morbid curiosity, or professional interest in the case? Times aren’t so good that I can thro
w money away on such whims.”
“I don’t need any protection. I can take care of myself!”
“So I noticed,” said the Doctor dryly. “You gave convincing evidence of it night before last.”
“Oh!” said the girl in exasperation. “You would say that!”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Suppose it is! I don’t have to learn the same lesson twice.”
“Well, apparently once wasn’t enough,” observed the other amiably. “You walked into the same danger tonight.”
“I wasn’t in any danger tonight!” Suddenly her mood changed as she recalled the circumstances of her parting with Nicholas Devine. “Dr. Carl,” she said, her voice dropping, “I’m terribly unhappy.”
“Lord!” he exclaimed staring at her. “Pat, your moods are as changeable as my golf game! You’re as mercurial as your Devine lad! A moment ago you were snapping at me, and now I’m suddenly acceptable again.” He perceived the misery in her face. “All right, child; I’m listening.”
“He’s going away,” she said mournfully.
“Don’t you think that’s best for everybody concerned? I commend his judgment.”
“But I don’t want him to!”
“You do, Pat. You can’t continue seeing him, and his absence will make it easier for you.”
“It’ll never be easier for me, Dr. Carl.” She felt her eyes fill. “I guess I’m—just a fool about him.”
“You still feel that way, after the experience you went through?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Then you are a fool about him, Pat. He’s not worth such devotion.”
“How do you know what he’s worth? I’m the only one to judge that.”
“I have eyes,” said the Doctor. “What happened tonight to change your attitude so suddenly? You were amenable to reason yesterday.”
“I didn’t know yesterday what I know now.”
“So he told a story, eh?” The Doctor watched her serious, troubled features. “Would you mind telling me, Honey? I’m interested in the defense mechanisms these psychopathic cases erect to explain their own impulses to themselves.”
“No, I won’t tell you!” snapped Pat indignantly. “Psychopathic cases! We’re all just cases to you. I’m a case and he’s another, and all you want is our symptoms!”
Doctor Horker smiled placatingly into her face. “Pat dear,” he said earnestly, “don’t you see I’d give my eyes to help you? Don’t take my flippancies too seriously, Honey; look once in a while at the intentions behind them.” He continued his earnest gaze.
The girl returned his look; her face softened. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I never doubted it, Dr. Carl—it’s only that I’m so—so torn to pieces by all this that I get snappy and irritable.” She paused. “Of course I’ll tell you.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“Well,” she began hesitantly, “he said he was two personalities—one the character I knew, and one the character that we saw Saturday night. And the first one is—well, dominant, and fights the other one. He says the other has been growing stronger; until lately he could suppress it. And he says—Oh, it sounds ridiculous, the way I tell it, but it’s true! I’m sure it’s true!” She leaned toward the Doctor. “Did you ever hear of anything like it? Did you, Dr. Carl?”
“No.” He shook his head, still watching her seriously. “Not exactly like that, Honey. Don’t you think he might possibly have lied to you, Pat? To excuse himself for the responsibility of Saturday night, for instance?”
“No, I don’t,” she said defiantly.
“Then you have an idea yourself what the trouble is? I judge you have.”
“Yes,” she said in low tones. “I have an idea.”
“What is it?”
“I think he’s possessed by a devil!” said the girl flatly.
A quizzical expression came into the Doctor’s face. “Well, of all the queer ideas that harum-scarum mind of yours has ever produced, that’s the queerest!” He broke into a chuckle.
“Queer, is it?” flared Pat. “I don’t think you and your mind-doctors know as much as a Swahili medicine-man with a mask!”
She leaped angrily to her feet, stamped viciously into the hall.
“Devil and all,” she repeated, “I love him!”
“Pat!” called the Doctor anxiously. “Pat! Where are you going, child?”
“Where do devils live?” Her voice floated tauntingly back from the front door. “Hell, of course!”
CHAPTER 17
Witch-Doctor
Pat had no intentions, however, of following the famous highway that evening. She stamped angrily down the Doctor’s steps, swished her way through the break in the hedge with small regard to the safety of her sheer hose, and mounted to her own porch. She found her key, opened the door and entered.
As she ascended the stairs, her fit of temper at the Doctor passed, and she felt lonely, weary, and unutterably miserable. She sank to a seat on the topmost step and gave herself over to bitter reflections.
Nick was gone! The realization came poignantly at last; there would be no more evening rides, no more conversations whose range was limited only by the scope of the universe, no more breath-taking kisses, the sweeter for his reluctance. She sat mournfully silent, and considered the miserable situation in which she found herself.
In love with a madman! Or worse—in love with a demon! With a being half of whose nature worshiped her while the other half was bent on her destruction! Was any one, she asked herself—was any one, anywhere, ever in a more hopeless predicament?
What could she do? Nothing, she realized, save sit helplessly aside while Nick battled the thing to a finish. Or possibly—the only alternative—take him as he was, chance the vicissitudes of his unstable nature, lay herself open to the horrors she had glimpsed so recently, and pray for her fortunes to point the way of salvation. And in the mood in which she now found herself, that seemed infinitely the preferable solution. Yet rationally she knew it was impossible; she shook her head despondently, and leaned against the wall in abject misery.
Then, thin and sharp sounded the shrill summons of the door bell, and a moment later, the patter of the maid’s footsteps in the hall below. She listened idly to distract herself from the chain of despondency that was her thoughts, and was mildly startled to recognize the booming drums of Dr. Horker’s voice. She heard his greeting and the muffled reply from the group, and then a phrase understandable because of his sonorous tones.
“Where’s Pat?” The words drifted up the well of the stairs, followed by a scarcely audible reply from her mother. Heavy footfalls on the carpeted steps, and then his figure bulked on the landing below her. She cupped her chin on her hands, and stared down at him while he ascended to her side, sprawling his great figure beside her.
“Pat, Honey,” he rumbled, “you’re beginning to get me worried!”
“Am I?” Her voice was weary, dull. “I’ve had myself like that for a long time.”
“Poor kid! Are you really so miserable over this Nick problem of yours?”
“I love him.”
“Yes.” He looked at her with sympathy and calculation mingling in his expression. “I believe you do. I’m sorry, Honey; I didn’t realize until now what he means to you.”
“You don’t realize now,” she murmured, still with the weary intonation.
“Perhaps not, Pat, but I’m learning. If you’re in this thing as deeply at all that, I’m in too—to the finish. Want me?”
She reached out her hand, plucking at his coatsleeve. Abruptly she leaned toward him, burying her face against the rough tweed of his suit; she sobbed a little, while he patted her gently with his great, delicately fingered hand. “I’m sorry, Honey,” he rumbled. “I’m sorry.”
The girl drew herself erect and lea
ned back against the wall, shaking her head to drive the tears from her eyes. She gave the Doctor a wan little smile.
“Well?” she asked.
“I’ll return your compliment of the other night,” said Horker briskly. “I’ll ask a few questions—purely professional, of course.”
“Fire away, Dr. Carl.”
“Good. Now, when our friend has one of these—uh—attacks, is he rational? Do his utterances seem to follow a logical thought sequence?”
“I—think so.”
“In what way does he differ from his normal self?”
“Oh, every way,” she said with a tremor. “Nick’s kind and gentle and sensitive and—and naive, and this—other—is cruel, harsh, gross, crafty, and horrible. You can’t imagine a greater difference.”
“Um. Is the difference recognizable instantly? Could you ever be in doubt as to which phase you were encountering?”
“Oh, no! I can—well, sort of dominate Nick, but the other—Lord!” She shuddered again. “I felt like a terrified child in the presence of some powerful, evil god.”
“Humph! Perhaps the god’s name was Priapus. Well, we’ll discount your feelings, Pat, because you weren’t exactly in the best condition for—let’s say sober judgment. Now about this story of his. What happens to his own personality when this other phase is dominant? Did he say?”
“Yes. He said his own self was compelled to sort of stand by while the—the intruder used his voice and body. He knew the thoughts of the other, but only when it was dominant. The rest of the time he couldn’t tell its thoughts.”
“And how long has he suffered from these—intrusions?”
“As long as he can remember. As a child he was blamed for the other’s mischief, and when he tried to explain, people thought he was lying to escape punishment.”
“Well,” observed the Doctor, “I can see how they might think that.”
“Don’t you believe it?”
“I don’t exactly disbelieve it, Honey. The human mind plays queer tricks sometimes, and this may be one of its little jokes. It’s a psychiatrist’s business to investigate such things, and to painlessly remove the point of the joke.”
The 27th Golden Age of Science Fiction Page 10