The Dark

by Andrew Neiderman

  Dimmesdale sat back, pressing the tips of his fingers together to form a cathedral with his hands.

  “You say you’re not religious now, but do you have very much in the way of religious training . . . background?”

  “Not really. But let me understand you, Father. You think my husband’s patient believes he is Satan?” Maggie asked.

  “No, Mrs. Blaine. I think he is Satan.”

  Maggie started to smile.

  “Did he show your husband in some way that he knew of something immoral or illegal he might have done, something he wouldn’t have expected anyone else to know?”

  Maggie’s smile quickly faded as she felt a warmth crawl up her chest, over her neck, and settle in her cheeks. She recalled the first time Grant had come home disturbed about Jules Bois because Bois knew about some of his past indiscretions.

  “Yes,” she said. Dimmesdale nodded.

  “There’s more, isn’t there? He told your husband about his most current victims and either you or your husband confirmed his stories?”

  “Yes, but from a purely legal viewpoint, I can’t be sure as to how much of a role he really did play. I wouldn’t know how to prosecute him.”

  “He is the archenemy of every pious act, the deceiver of men, but he must first be given the opportunity. Since he can read the evil thoughts in our minds, he chooses those who express them and are most vulnerable to his attack. Then he leads us to wickedness. The Devil can’t get into a human soul, but he can get into our bodies. When he is completely victorious, he possesses us. We would need to be exorcised. This is what eventually happened to Doctor Flemming, I’m afraid. And what could very likely happen to your husband, if it hasn’t already.

  “I understand your skepticism,” Father Dimmesdale continued quickly. “Ironically, it’s that very skepticism that the fiend relies upon because it keeps us from being vigilant. You want to be skeptical; you don’t want a universe in which there is an active, conscious evil at work. You would rather believe that evil is the by-product of social and psychological problems, something that can be corrected and eventually destroyed.”

  Maggie nodded.

  “Grant thinks we’ve destroyed Satan, destroyed the concept of evil. He’s talking about redefining guilt, blaming religion for psychological problems in society today.”

  “Is he . . . writing a book?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. He had a manuscript the other night.”

  Dimmesdale nodded.

  “He’s nearly his, if not already so.”

  Maggie winced.

  “I thought, even for the church, belief in the Devil was a symbolic thing, that we had left the Middle Ages,” Maggie said, a little more sharply than she had intended.

  “Yes, we have left the Middle Ages, and so has Satan. Satan moves with the times; evil metamorphoses as well as good.” He leaned forward. “Satan has chosen your husband and your husband’s profession lately. He has found a way to turn the sword of psychoanalytic thought against itself and use it as his new weapon. In a sense he always did. He appealed to our paranoia, our illusions or delusions, he built upon our . . . what psychiatrists call . . . id, the animal in us, to get us to succumb to temptation and evil.

  “Now, with our emphasis on the psychological to explain human behavior, our tendency at times is to forgive or mitigate our evil acts by claiming they are the result of psychological disorders, mental aberrations, temporary insanities . . . John W. Hinckley, Jr., for example. Remember him? He tried to assassinate President Ronald Reagan and succeeded in wounding him, remember? Our jury found him not guilty of criminal conduct by reason of insanity. Hinckley was a troubled young man, his family had nearly committed him to a mental hospital . . . on and on. It’s what forensic psychiatrists call the cognitive standard or the M’Naughten rule, the incapability of knowing right from wrong at the time of the act, correct?” Dimmesdale smiled. “Children who kill their parents, no matter how viciously or determinedly, must be forgiven because their parents abused them; policemen who beat their fugitives nearly to death must be understood because of the pressure under which they work; on and on it goes.”

  “That’s what Grant’s been saying.”

  “Of course. It fits. Imagine if there had been one other person in the Garden of Eden. Imagine if this one other person was a psychiatrist who was then asked by Adam to testify for Eve.

  “‘Lord,’ he would say, ‘Eve was under great strain. She felt unappreciated and was very insecure. She was paranoid. Everything was so perfect, she kept expecting something terrible to happen, especially after the dire warning.

  “‘And Lord, she was innocent. How would she recognize the face of evil? It wasn’t even in her subconscious. No, Lord, Eve did not know what she was doing. Please, Lord, apply the cognitive rule.’

  “We should certainly apply it to Cain,” he continued. “Look at what mental turmoil he lived under because of his brother Abel. If he had only been able to go into analysis, he might not have committed the first murder.”

  Maggie started to smile.

  “Don’t look down on my ideas, Mrs. Blaine,” Dimmesdale said sternly. “Lydia Flemming realized too late that her husband had been invaded. His own patients, because of his weakness, were falling victim; and the same will happen to your husband’s patients,” Dimmesdale prophesied.

  Maggie shook her head.

  “You’ll have to come to these conclusions yourself. But if you wait too long . . . somewhere some other psychiatrist will be getting a call from a former patient of Doctor Blaine, who will either have committed suicide or perhaps even murdered someone himself,” Dimmesdale predicted with cold certainty.

  “Well,” Maggie said. She was trying to think of a graceful way to flee this house and this strange priest. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts.”

  Dimmesdale laughed.

  “My thoughts won’t help you if you don’t believe in what I say.”

  “Even if I did, what could I do against . . .” She had trouble saying it, but did. “The Devil?”

  “You must destroy the vessel in which Lucifer has poured his molten hate-filled self. As you see from my home, I have surrounded myself with those weapons that have proven effective against the fiend since time began. Once he gets past your wall of faith and virtue, you are vulnerable and must battle him with whatever has proven effective since Eden. Certain gems, such as the chrysolite and the agate, have been known to put the Devil to flight, as well as herbs and plants like garlic and rue. Salt is one of the things that puts real fear into the Devil.”

  “Why salt?”

  “It’s the symbol of immortality and eternity. A dish of salt was often placed on the body of the deceased,” Dimmesdale explained. “But alas, my dear, I believe it is too late for these remedies, for he has entered your husband’s fortress. No, you can do only what I said . . . destroy his vessel.”

  Bois went to the cabinet and opened the top drawer slowly. He reached in and brought out something wrapped in an embroidered piece of a shroud. He placed it on the table and carefully, reverently, peeled the material back to reveal a silver cross, the bottom of the stem of which was sharpened into a pointed blade. It glittered in the candlelight.

  “The cross has always been blinding to the Devil. It is our most sacred symbol and the one that reminds him of Christ’s sacrifice to drive evil from this world. It reiterates Satan’s ultimate defeat and he cannot face it.

  “But to be sure we will not fail . . .” Dimmesdale returned to the cabinet and brought out a small pewter bottle. He opened it. “In here I have holy water, which in itself would singe and burn the fiend.” He tipped the bottle over the stem of the cross and poured a tiny stream of the water over it.

  Maggie watched, wide-eyed, and then looked up at the small man.

  “What . . . what am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Drive it into his heart,” Dimmesdale said without hesitation. “Before he drives himself into your husband completely
.”

  He wrapped the cross in the shroud again and then handed it to her.

  “Take it and go. It’s all I can do for you now.”

  Maggie took it but shook her head.

  “I can’t kill a man.”

  “No one is telling you to kill a man. Would I, a priest, tell you to kill another man? You won’t be killing a man, but you must kill the body in which the Devil currently resides.”

  “If you’re so certain of all this and you are sure this man is the Devil, why don’t you destroy him yourself, Father?” Maggie challenged.

  The priest looked away.

  “I’ve told you how he can seize upon the evil in our hearts, Mrs. Blaine. In my case . . . let’s just say, I know I am vulnerable. I have sinned.”

  The sincerity of his confession made her feel less aggressive. She started away.

  “One final test to satisfy your doubt,” he said, walking beside her. “As I have told you, the Devil is the Ape of God, copying that which the Creator has endowed man. But being an imitator, he is never capable of completely assimilating the original. Some thing’s always missing. If he is perfect in the sense that he is exactly like you and me, then he is merely a man with extraordinary powers; but if he is not . . .” He opened the door and she stepped out.

  “God be with you, Mrs. Blaine,” Dimmesdale said, and closed the door behind her.

  17

  Maggie took a deep breath and looked at the well-lit lobby of the building. An elderly gentleman came out and walked up the street, but other than that, there was very little activity. After her disappointing visit with this Father Dimmesdale, she decided she had to confront this man once and for all. It was almost out of curiosity as much as anything else. Who was this man who could influence, control, and fool so many people? Perhaps if she confronted him, she could get him to leave them alone, to stay away from Grant.

  She opened the car door and stepped out slowly. At the front of the building, she took another deep breath and then pressed the button next to the name Jules Bois. A moment later, he spoke.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Bois, my name is Maggie Blaine. I’m Doctor Blaine’s wife and I’d like to see you.”

  “Well . . . of course. I hope he’s all right,” the nearly muffled voice replied.

  “Yes, he’s all right,” she said.

  “Good. Please. Come right up,” he said, and she heard the buzzer unlock the front door. She took another deep breath for courage and entered. She pushed the button for the elevator. The doors opened immediately and she stepped in.

  A few moments later, she stepped out and up to the apartment door. Shortly after she pushed the buzzer, the door was opened, but instead of Bois, an elderly lady gazed out at her.

  “Oh, I’m looking for Mr. Bois,” Maggie said.

  “This is his apartment. I was just leaving. He asked me to answer the door. Please, come in,” she said. Maggie entered the apartment and the elderly lady closed the door.

  “I’m Amanda Lucy, his next-door neighbor,” the elderly lady said.

  “How do you do?” Maggie said, and thought this must be the nice old lady Hartman had referred to.

  “Mr. Bois will be out in a moment. Nice to have met you, dear,” she said, and left the apartment.

  Maggie gazed around. Everything looked so neat, clean, and new. He was no slob, that was for sure. She stepped gingerly into the living room and a moment later, appearing almost out of thin air, Jules Bois came up behind her.

  “So you’ve found me,” he said, and she spun around.

  What she saw almost caused her to drop not only the wrapped cross, but her purse as well. Her heart pounded, and a cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. Her cheeks were immediately flushed. She actually felt faint and feared she would go unconscious.

  “You? You’re Mr. Bois? But I thought . . . you were an attorney.”

  “I am, and when I’m an attorney,” he said, “I’m Thomas Becket.”

  The man who had nearly seduced her, the man who had taken her to dinner in that cozy Italian restaurant, stood before her in his robe, his hair neatly brushed, his face cleanly shaven, and reeking of a sweet cologne.

  “It’s sort of an original idea, I think,” he said, smiling warmly. “If you can be more than one person, why not have more than one name?” he said. “I have a whole set of friends, acquaintances, who know me as Thomas Becket, and a whole set who know me as Jules Bois, when I’m Jules Bois.”

  Maggie shook her head, her mouth agape. He laughed.

  “We did have an enjoyable evening, didn’t we? I don’t mean to pry, but did you ever find out why your husband was unreachable on such an auspicious occasion?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice raspy, “I have the feeling it was because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “Who are you? I mean, really?” she asked.

  “I’m one of those fortunate people who are many things,” he replied calmly. “Please, have a seat. I’d love to hear why you have come to see me.” He stepped forward, gesturing toward the beige settee.

  Maggie retreated quickly, thinking now she would just run out, but when her gaze went to Bois’ bare feet, she paused. All the toes on the left foot were gone. It turned her into a statue of ice. What was it Father Dimmesdale had said about the final test? “The devil is the Ape of God, but being an imitator, he is never capable of completely assimilating the original. Something’s always missing. If he’s the same as you and me, then he’s merely a man, but if he’s not . . .”

  “I see you’re looking at my foot. Lawn mower accident years and years ago. My father had me cutting the grass before I was really old enough to handle a power mower. I must say, it presents a problem for me whenever I go to buy shoes. So”—he put his hands on his hips—“if you didn’t know I was Thomas Becket, why did you come to see me?”

  “I . . . want you to stop seeing my husband. I want you to leave him alone. I don’t know what you’re up to or who you really are, but I know you’ve done evil things,” she said, her throat so dry now, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to speak.

  “Really?”

  He stepped toward her. Maggie instinctively retreated and at the same time pulled the cloth from the cross.

  “What is that? A cross?”

  “It’s been bathed in holy water,” she said, “by a priest.”

  Bois smiled. Then he shook his head.

  “Who do you think I am?” He stepped toward her and she backed away. “Dracula?” he said, and laughed. “I must say, this is the most original come-on I’ve ever experienced. Bravo, Mrs. Blaine. This could be a very exciting night . . . for both of us,” he continued, and undid the strap on his robe.

  Maggie shook her head as if to deny the reality of this confrontation. This was insane. How did she let herself get into this? What made her think she could frighten or reason with such a man?

  “We’ll make love like you’ve never made love before,” he said. “A woman with your drive and energy should have a lover who can give her what she deserves.”

  “Stay back,” Maggie warned. “I know you were seeing Henry Flemming and I know what you did to him. I’ve told the police.”

  “Henry Flemming did everything to himself, and to his wife, I might add. He was already more troubled than I was when we first met. I tried to help him, just as I’ve been trying to help Grant.”

  “You won’t anymore,” Maggie predicted. “I won’t let you.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry, Mrs. Blaine. I’m finished with your husband,” Bois said, “but I’m not finished with you.”

  Bois came forward again. She turned toward the doorway. Bois saw where she was looking and laughed.

  “Are you expecting someone else? The cavalry, perhaps?” Bois laughed again and came at her.

  She started to turn away, intending to rush past him and out the door, but he scooped her at the waist and pulled her toward him.

  “Why did you really com
e up here, Maggie? Admit it to yourself and enjoy the bountiful pleasures of self-indulgence. Relax. It’s always better that way,” he said, and brought his lips to her face. She tried to turn away, but he seized her head with his left hand and forced her to turn his way. She felt his erection building, prodding.

  “Give it up, Mrs. Blaine,” he whispered into her ear. “As an attorney, you can see the difficulty of accusing me of rape. You came up here, and after we had a tryst, a romantic dinner, too. Who will the world believe—you, Mag Pie? Just lay back and enjoy,” he added, pushing her to the settee.

  “Let me go, damn you!”

  She seized his shoulder and dug in her nails.

  He grasped her at the throat and held her back as he dropped the robe from his body. Then he moved over her. Without hesitation, desperate and in a frenzy, she brought her right hand around, the cross now grasped in her fingers tightly, and drove it hard and fast, with all her strength, into Bois’ left side, just under his armpit.

  He gasped, released his hold on her, gazed into her eyes, smiled, and stepped back. Then his expression changed, the joviality leaving his face.

  “You weren’t kidding,” he said. “There is holy water on this.”

  He folded before her, falling on his right side, the sharpened cross embedded so that the Christ icon faced her. Blood streamed down and over his chest. He shuddered and then went still.

  Maggie’s first thought was to flee. She stepped past him and went to the apartment door. When she opened it, she found the corridor empty. She rushed out to the elevator, hit the button, and lunged in when the doors opened. As she caught her breath and the elevator descended, the realization of what she had done settled in.

  “My God!” she cried. “I must have killed him!”

  The doors opened on an empty lobby. She stood there a moment and then went out slowly, deliberately, to her car. She got in, picked up the car phone, and dialed 911.

  “This is Maggie Blaine,” she said. She rattled off the address. “I’ve just stabbed a man in self-defense. I think he’s dead or dying. Send an ambulance.”